All Will Be Revealed
by Dame Niamh
Summary: COMPLETED! Have you ever wondered what would happen if Severus Snape, the foremost forensic expert of the Wizarding World, were to meet The Great Detective, Sherlock Holmes? Dead bodies, mysteries, an unexpected romance. Please read and review!
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer:  All the Harry Potter characters you recognise were created by J.K. Rowling and are hers entirely.  I owe Sherlock Holmes to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mary Russell to Laurie R. King, and the rest to my own imagination. 

Author's Note: Thanks and praise to excessivelyperky, a most excellent and resourceful beta reader, without whose collaboration and knowledge this story would never have been written, and to Snape's Witch, for her insight.     DN

 All Will Be Revealed

Chapter One:  An Unsettling Discovery

.  _"One day your spirit will be moved, and the best you can hope for is that you follow where it takes you without question.  When you can do that, all will be revealed."_…Albus Dumbledore, in "To The Honour Of The Mother"_._

Severus Snape was in full voice and fine fettle, striding up and down (swirling his cloak about himself artfully every time he changed direction, Madam Pomfrey noted), clenching his fists when he was not flinging out a long arm to emphasise a point. "Do you think for one moment that I _need_ help?  You'd have the place crawling with Muggle gumshoes, Ministry morons and the entire bloody Scotland Yard if I allowed it, and I will not!  WILL NOT!"

At a quarter to three that morning, Hogwarts' peaceful slumber had been rudely disturbed.  Mrs Norris, padding quietly along the halls during her routine patrol, felt a disruption in the general pleasance of the castle as she approached the eastern corridor of the Ravenclaw wing.  Something was Not Right; something was… she put her whiskers forward:  yes, an unusual and unpleasant smell.  She rounded the corner and there!  In the middle of the floor, on the carpet, lay two humans.  They were dead.  She ran, screaming, to find Filch.

Argus Filch, upon viewing the bodies, asked the house ghosts to keep any curious onlookers from approaching too closely, and then he ran as fast as his bowed legs could carry him to get Professor Snape and Headmaster Dumbledore.  Snape arrived at the discovery scene, gave it a cursory investigation, determined that the subjects, lacking pulse and breath, were indeed dead, and cast a Holding spell over the corpses, so that they should not decompose before he had had a chance to examine them.  He sent an elf to fetch Madam Pomfrey.  The mediwitch and the Headmaster arrived at the same time.

The house elves crept fearfully around the bodies, torn between their natural desire to _clean up _and fright:  dead Masters!  They were accustomed to Hogwarts' ghosts, friendly and otherwise, but lifeless bodies terrified them.  Mrs Norris stood against the balustrade, her back arched, her tail as thick as a bottlebrush. Nearly Headless Nick was literally beside himself; he had exuded enough nervous ectoplasm to create a doppelganger, and both were wringing their hands, rolling their eyes and anxiously passing back and forth through the walls.

"The questions are, who are they, why are they here, and why are they dead?"  Dumbledore poked one of the corpses with his wand, eliciting neither the silver spark that would identify a Wizard nor the green mist that would confirm that the deceased was a Muggle. Snape levitated the bodies so that he might walk all around them and under them.  

"From their clothing I would infer that they are foreign," he said. "Some Middle Eastern country that is largely desert, hence the loose-fitting, flowing robes of Arabian design. There are no outward signs of the cause of death, no blood, no knife or teeth marks, no contusions.  However, from the looks on their faces, it is clear that they did not die peacefully – or naturally."  Snape glanced at the corpses:  they bore expressions of extreme terror, as well as severe pain.  He stretched out his long hand towards the bodies – no, none of the residual prickling that would indicate the use of a Curse.

"My," said Madam Pomfrey.  "Have you ever travelled to the Middle East, Professor?"

Snape looked at her condescendingly.  "Hardly," he said.  "One can read all one needs to know, if one is so inclined, without the expense and discomfort of travel in foreign lands."

"Well, we know they're not Muggles.  What indeed are they?"

Irritated, Snape strode over to the corpses, bent over them briefly.  "Take them and prepare a morgue," he ordered.  "I can re-construct the scene if need be.  I shall be there presently." Madam Pomfrey and her aides cast a Mobilicorpus spell, and the levitated bodies began to move, side by side, enabling the aides to guide them towards the hospital.  Snape began to stalk away, then turned, his cloak swirling about him. "I must work undisturbed.  I shall arrange for another professor to take my classes until this matter is resolved.  This is a most unusual case, and will require my full concentration."

 "Wait, Severus," called Dumbledore.  "I agree: we've never seen the like of this before.  Usually, when someone is killed, we know who did it and why: it's Voldemort or a Death Eater or a troll, something like that.  But this – we can't hand it over to the Muggle police, because they're not Muggles.  However…" he stroked his long white beard, "We might seek some help from the acknowledged expert in forensic science.  You've heard of Sherlock Holmes, I trust?"

The Headmaster was untroubled that the Great Detective should be a character in literature, not a real being, but the mere thought of being _assisted by anyone _– real or fictitious – caused Professor Snape, an acknowledged expert in matters forensic in his colleagues' (and his own) estimation, to take a conniption.


	2. All Will Be Revealed Chapter 2

Disclaimer:  All the Harry Potter characters you recognise were created by J.K. Rowling and are hers entirely.  I owe Sherlock Holmes to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mary Russell to Laurie R. King, and the rest to my own imagination. 

Chapter Two:  I'd Want to Solve the Mystery 

"Cor, you've had your nose in them Russell and Holmes books forever," Ron commented, squirming sideways in the armchair and draping his legs over one arm. "Where'd you find them?"   He upended his bag of crisps over his mouth and shook it to deliver the remaining few crumbs. Gryffindor common room was sparsely occupied this evening, and Ron, Harry and Hermione commandeered the best squashy armchairs in front of the hearth.

"I stumbled upon them in Flourish & Blotts, where they keep the Muggle books they think they're never going to sell," replied Hermione.  "I've read everything Conan Doyle's ever written, and Mrs King's books are perfectly in keeping with it," she added, scooping a handful of pretzels from Harry's bowl.  "They're very popular, and her fans devour them.  Mrs King brings Holmes to life in a way that Doyle never could."

"So how can you get the Great Detective here, alive, from reading that stuff?" asked Harry, intercepting Ron's predatory grab towards the pretzel bowl.  "It's too bad, but you can't contact Mrs King and ask her to write another novel putting Sherlock Holmes into the Wizarding World. D'you think she's a witch herself?   Anyway, it'll take too long, and those corpses will start to rot.  Maggots and beetles," he said with relish.

Ron snorted, and Hermione ignored his comment.  "There are a number of fans who write their own stories based on Conan Doyle's and Mrs King's works.  They write what they call "fanfics," or fan fiction. When I went to Mrs King's Web site, there was a reference to their publications, which are kept in a Web site called "The Hive."  There's one in particular – they all write under pen-names – who I think could write him alive."

_"What?" _Pretzels and crisp crumbs flew into the air as the young men converged on their friend.  

"You're daft," said Ron.  "You're going to contact a Muggle author and get him or her to _write _Sherlock Holmes into real life existence?"

Hermione smiled.  "At least I can try," she said.  "The Headmaster didn't think my idea was daft, or no more daft than others I've come up with before."

"***

Maura McNicholas saved the elaborate schematic drawing in front of her on the PC screen.  Her eyes burned, and she shut them for a bit and shoved her glasses up on top of her head.  She'd been at the complex diagram of computer wiring and cabling for Danforth Wickers' new Toronto headquarters building since seven in the morning, with a ten-minute break to bring in the mail and fix herself a sandwich and a glass of lemonade, five minutes at five-thirty to feed the cat, and it was ten o'clock at night.  

She rose and stretched.  She'd forgotten about dinner, and wandered into the kitchen to warm up some soup.  She brought it back into her office, and stared at the moonscape screensaver in front of her.  "I should close down and go to sleep," she said to Pumpkin, the large ginger tabby stretched on top of the papers on her desk.  "But – _he_ calls…"

Maura clicked onto the Internet and hot-keyed to The Hive, a fan fiction site dedicated to the readers of Laurie R. King's Mary Russell-Sherlock Holmes books.  She looked to see if her latest _pastiche _on Sherlock Holmes and his growing involvement with his student and partner, Mary Russell, had been posted:  there it was.  She re-read it, and read another fan's new posting.  She leaned forward.

Wait. What was that stuff on the side of the screen?  Strange ASCII characters?  They looked familiar.  She pressed the Print Screen key, and the text slid out of her laser printer, but the odd characters didn't print.  She highlighted them and increased the point size to 16:  the text enlarged obligingly, but she was left squinting at the symbols. She right-clicked on the highlighted symbols and tried to Copy them, but her PC dinged at her and nothing happened.  She closed The Hive and opened her E-mail account.  There were the mysterious characters, on the right side of her screen.  

She found a pencil, and began to copy the characters into her notebook, one at a time.  They weren't difficult to reproduce.  She found herself muttering as she wrote: "_Tuatha an…"_

Maura's head jerked upright.  She'd been sleeping at her desk!  Her clock told her she'd been asleep for an hour. Her Internet connection had logged her off for lack of activity.  Her neck ached.  She stretched in her chair, and stared in disbelief at her PC screen.

In large red type:  _Greetings, 'Mary, called Magdalene,' or should I say, Maura McNicholas.  I need your help._

As she watched, the letters blinked, first slowly, then faster.

This could _not_ be happening.  She wasn't even logged on, and here she was getting Instant Messaging from someone who knew not only her Hive 'nom,' but also her _real _name!  She hit the Enter key, and then typed, "Who are you?  What's happening?"  Her heart pounded. 

This may be hard for you to believe, but you can help to solve a real mystery.  Two people have been killed.  We don't have the skills to solve this crime, but we know who does.  You and I both know.  You can bring him to us.

"Is this a scam?  Have you hacked into my computer?  I'm not doing anything until you identify yourself and tell me what you want."

By 'scam,' I take it you mean a fraud or illegal scheme.  No, nothing of the sort.  I've not hacked into your computer; I've made it possible for us to communicate through your brain.  I've read everything you've written for The Hive; it's excellent.  You can write the solution to our mystery."

"Very clever!" Maura typed.  "Is this how you get stories you can publish for your own ends?  Whoever you are?  Well, I don't write 'to order.'  I only write for my own pleasure.  Now tell me what you're talking about or you're gone."

_Very well,_ said a voice in her ear.  Maura started violently.  _We can converse inside your head, if you prefer._

"Get out!"  Maura shouted, terrified.

All right, I'm sorry I frightened you.  Allow me to introduce myself.

The screen cleared, and Maura was looking at a young woman's face.  She was plain but pretty, with long curly brown hair and very dark brown eyes.  She smiled, and two deep dimples pocketed her cheeks. _It's a TV film, _thought Maura.

The picture's voice came out of the PC's speakers:  "I'm Hermione Granger.  If you look behind me, you'll see the walls of my room at Hogwarts, with all my books and stuff."

"Are you _live?_ Is this part of a film?_" _gasped Maura. "How can you see _me?_"

"Yes, I surely am alive, and no, there's nothing to do with films here," said the face.  "It's a bit complicated to explain how I see you, but here, now: do something with your hands and I'll do it back, so you'll know we're real-time."

Maura put both hands into her disorderly mop of thick, straight auburn hair and pulled it up on top of her head.

"Brilliant!" exclaimed Hermione. "It's driving me crazy hanging about my shoulders."  She put her hands into her hair, pulled it up on top of her head and held it with one hand while she rummaged about for something to tie it with, finally locating a ravelling ribbon. 

Maura put her elbows on her desk.  "You're real," she said faintly.

"Yes, I am that," answered Hermione.  "Now I'll do something, and you do it back."  She crossed her eyes right into the corners of her nose.

"My mother used to say I'd freeze like that if I did it!" cried Maura. She crossed her eyes, and the young woman on the screen yelped with laughter.

"All right, Maura, I'll tell you all that's happened," said Hermione.  A broad, furry head with a whiskery, flat face peeped into the corner of the screen, then monopolised it.  "Oh, this is Crookshanks, my familiar.  Do you have one?"

With that, Pumpkin roused himself, put his nose on the monitor screen and yowled. Maura lifted him away.  "That's Pumpkin," she said.  "He's pretty familiar, I'd say."

****

"It's getting light," Maura said, looking out of her window.  On the screen in front of her, Hermione Granger yawned widely into her hands.

"I know.  I've got to get ready for class, and you've got a workday ahead of you.  Maura, does everything I've said make any sense?"

"Yes, it does," answered Maura.  "There really _is _a Wizarding universe. I'm a Muggle, of course; I would never have known anything about this.  You of the Wizarding World keep it hidden too well.  From what you've told me, I could probably write fan fiction about _you_ as well."

Hermione's already large eyes widened.  "So that's why we have alternative universes.  I don't think I want to know them, certainly not now.  But that must be why your work spoke to me, why I felt that you were the right author, of all that I'd read on The Hive."

"It would never have occurred to me to put the two worlds together, but I think I'm up to it."  Maura thought, _Am I biting off more than I can chew?_  "But, Hermione, if I were writing a story, I'd want to solve the mystery and draw everything to a conclusion.  If I understand you correctly, you just want me to get Sherlock Holmes to Hogwarts, and let everything develop on its own."

"Yes, I think that would be best.  Can you do it?"

Maura considered.  "Yes, but – well, I'll never know how it will come out.  I won't be able to write the ending."

"Oh," said Hermione, "I think you'll know.  Good-bye now, let's meet tonight."

"Good-bye, Hermione," said Maura.  The screen cleared, and her schematic filled it.

Good God, thought Maura.  They're real.  I can't let on that they're fictional characters; since they're real to themselves.  This is crazy. They know that Sherlock Holmes isn't real, though. Should I tell them not to tell him that he isn't real?  However can I keep all of this straight? I have to make him as real as they are.  Crazier and crazier!

Do I want to involve Mary Russell?  All my other Hive fan fiction had both of them, not to mention various other characters I created. Many other Hive writers have everything occurring inside of Holmes' head; meditations, if you will, but I like him in interactions, particularly when he gets into high dudgeon.  And Russell puts him there so beautifully…

I have to transport him from the world he lives in, Great War-Georgian England.  The Potter universe is indeterminate in time; it feels like the Eighties (in the Muggle world, anyway).  I don't think I want to mess with technical time transport, so I'll have to do it another way. Holmes is accustomed to his era's technical advances; the telephone, the gramophone, automobiles, electricity, but those are still new in his time.  I think he'll be okay with Hogwarts' candlelight and quill pens.

Maura carried her change of clothes into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.  She often got her best ideas while washing her hair.  As she scrubbed, she considered the transition.  _Can't have Holmes arrive in Hogwarts so befuddled that he can't function.  But he was such an advanced thinker that he could easily have accepted the idea of another universe, one where magic was commonplace.  Hmm, _she thought, rinsing off conditioner, _would he hate it, since logic and reality are his tools in trade?  _

_Wait a minute:  this is the chap who loves disguises; who thinks Houdini is a genius; who enjoys Mme. Blavatsky although he denounced her as a charlatan, and holds forth on Hermes Trismegistus as the inventor of alchemy._  She turned off the water, groped for a towel and threw it over her head.  She put on her terrycloth robe and stepped out of the tub, rubbing her hair. _He'll fit in quite well with the sort of mediaeval atmosphere of Hogwarts.  And I can just _see_ the first meeting between him and Snape_…. She chortled and began to get dressed. 


	3. Chaper 3 Stark Staring Mad

Disclaimer:  All the Harry Potter characters you recognise were created by J.K. Rowling and are hers entirely.  I owe Sherlock Holmes to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mary Russell to Laurie R. King, and the rest to my own imagination. 

A/N:  Thanks to all who have read and reviewed the story so far.  Stay with us!  The game's afoot!  DN

**_Chapter Three:  Stark Staring Mad_**

Sherlock Holmes arose stiffly, every bone in his body protesting.  He put on his boots, rolled up his sleeping bag, and went to see if any coals were left from the fire he had banked before he went to sleep.   He squinted at the horizon:  ten of six, if he was any judge of sunrise.  He checked his pocket-watch:  _eleven_ of six.  The rolling hills of Ayrshire were cloaked in mist; he could hear the sea.  The air was warm for a Scottish morning, although he could see his breath.

Holmes had left Edinburgh University two days before and taken train to Ayr.  After a long and stultifying conference during which he had presented his paper on forensic methods in criminology, he determined to walk in the Ayrshire hills, to get some fresh air and exercise, before returning to Sussex.  _As if I were twenty years younger_, he chided himself.  Although hale and healthy for his fifty-eight years, Holmes believed he had deteriorated since his retirement.  How else to explain that a night spent sleeping on the ground, which ordinarily would have been refreshing and salutary, caused him to feel as if he had been lying on the proverbial bed of nails?

He took out his water-canteen and rummaged in his kit for his tin cup, tea, sugar, biscuits and, if he remembered aright, a tin of kippers.  He found his cup, but everything else was missing.  _Did I forget to pack it?_ he wondered.  No, that was not right; Mrs Hudson always did up his kit for him, and he recalled her handing it to him as he prepared to leave.

He looked around.  _Where was his mackintosh? And where was his hat?_  He found his deerstalker cap on a bush, but the mac was gone.  How could this happen?  He was a light sleeper; and would have heard if someone had come sneaking round to rob him.  But how could they open his kit without making a sound?  _I'm losing my grip, _he thought sourly.  Now, where had he placed his walking stick?  It was a venerable Scots Cranach and had served him as support, weapon, tent-pole and even punt pole.  Nowhere, nowhere to be found  

His fury built.  Two red spots appeared on his lean cheekbones.  He secured his knapsack on his back, clapped his cap on his head and felt in his pockets for his pipe.  _His pipe.  It was gone, as was his small travelling pouch of tobacco._ No breakfast, no mac, no walking stick and now, no pipe?  "Bloody Hell!" he roared. He found a most unsatisfactory substitute for his stick on the ground, stripped it of some spindly twigs, and set off, in a right swivet, for what he was absolutely positive was the direction towards Ayr, and civilisation.

***

Minerva McGonagall had taken a few moments before classes began to look out of the window and admire the flowering cherry trees around the castle.  She had spied a lone figure tramping along the lane that led from the Forbidden Forest.  Quickly, she _accio_'d a spyglass, and watched as the walker neared.  It was a man, wearing what appeared to be Muggle clothes of a bygone day, with a dreadful hat on his head and a pack on his back.  He was using a bent and twisted stick as a walking cane, and as he came closer, she could see his mouth working:  he was talking to himself.  _Dotty,_ she thought.  How did a Muggle get through the wards around the castle grounds?

She went to the nearest fireplace and shook in some Floo powder from the phial she carried in her pocket.  "Dumbledore," she said. 

"Yes, Minerva?" the Headmaster asked, when he saw his Transfigurations professor's head in his hearth.  

"Hullo, Albus.  There's a Muggle approaching – I think he's mad, and might be a menace."

"If it's who I think it is, he's not mad at all, just eccentric.  Very well, let's meet him," and the Headmaster followed her in haste.  Filch and Hagrid were already stationed at the front door of the castle.

***

Sherlock Holmes had seen the amazing structure directly he exited from the most unpleasant forest he had ever traversed.  "I know of no castle in the vicinity," thought he, and pulled out his pocket Baedeker of Scotland to confirm it.

Nevertheless, there it stood, surrounded by well-kept orchards, fields of grain and magnificent gardens and flowering trees.  How could he never have seen it before?  Ayrshire was a favourite vacation spot, and surely such a castle, situated on a lovely lake (which was likewise unknown to Baedeker), would be a popular attraction.  He walked down the finely gravelled path towards the huge double doors, which opened to show a welcoming committee.  Holmes stopped in astonishment.

_What was this?  A madhouse?  _There stood an old man in what was surely a Wizard's costume, with a white beard so long it was tucked into his belt; a lady of indeterminate middle age wearing a long gown and a _witch's hat,_ a crooked-legged fellow, seemingly one-eyed, and – _no, he wasn't seeing this—_a giant half again as tall and as wide as a normal man.  There was no-where to run.

Then, all four waved to him, smiled and called, "Welcome, traveller!"  The lady came forward and took his arm.  "Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, sir," she said.  I'm Minerva McGonagall, Transfigurations professor.  And this"—she indicated the old man – "is Headmaster Dumbledore."

Holmes was struck dumb.  _Mad.  They're all stark staring mad.  _He allowed himself to be ushered inside, where the crooked-leg man made off to points indeterminate, the giant bowed and introduced himself as Rubeus Hagrid, and the Headmaster and the witch conducted him to a spacious parlour.  They looked at him expectantly.

He cleared his throat.  "Sherlock Holmes, at your service," he said.  With that, they clustered around him, shaking his hand, pulling him towards a table that was laid with a breakfast fit for a king (including, he noticed, kippers), and inviting him to sit down.

"What is this place?  I know, you've said it's a school, but I never knew there was a castle here-"

"You've had a difficult trip," said Dumbledore, "and you're owed an explanation, Mr. Holmes.  But first, let's have breakfast, and then we can talk in my study."

Sherlock Holmes patted his lips with his napkin.  It had been quite a breakfast.  The wizened elf, who appeared out of thin air at his elbow, bearing a basin and ewer, had startled him:  "Nibby wash your hands, Master?" he asked humbly.  Holmes nodded, holding his hands over the basin, and the gnome poured warm water over them.  A towel flew out of no-where and dried his hands, and then towel, basin, ewer and elf disappeared with a snap of the little creature's fingers.

Then, his napkin rose from the side of his plate and draped itself over his lap.  Dishes of food floated gently in the air in front of him, and he helped himself; then they floated over to the others.  He noticed pots of tea pouring themselves into cups, but when he looked at his own, it was full of hot, strong black coffee.  The food was superb.  

During breakfast, Holmes told them of his trek into Ayrshire and his belief that he had been robbed.  The giant, Hagrid, nodded sympathetically.  "Odd things happens on the moor," he rumbled.  "'Tis possible ye'll see yer belongings again, sir; some elementals like to play with others' stuff."

"Elementals?  I do not believe that such exist," said Sherlock Holmes.  

"Well, they don't, in the Muggle world," said the Headmaster, and proceeded to give the visitor a short explanation of the difference between the Muggle and the Wizarding worlds, and how they were able to co-exist.

Holmes sat; chin in hand, brows knitted.  "As we know there are things in Nature that mere man cannot perceive, such as a vacuum, it is entirely logical that there should be a multiplicity of worlds," he mused.

"Yes, indeed," said Minerva.  "'There is more in Heaven and Earth than is dreamt of in thy philosophy, Horatio,'" and she smiled her peculiarly feline smile.

"Aha!  So you know Shakespeare!" Holmes commented.

"Of course!" said Dumbledore,  "There are many things that transcend the barriers between the worlds.  Great literature, art, music, Nature—all is there for Muggle and Wizard alike."

They repaired to Dumbledore's office.  "Gobstoppers," said the Headmaster, and the gryphon revolved, revealing the spiral staircase.

"Capital!' exclaimed Holmes.  His eyes snapped with excitement.  Dream or reality, mad or sane, this was an adventure!  He _needed_ an adventure badly; only a few years ago, he had been close to ending a monotonous, empty, purposeless life, and whenever Russell returned to Oxford, where she was now, reading her damned theology, his life lost colour and flavour, and the chill of lonely old age crept over him.  _Russell…_

"And so," the Headmaster finished, "we reasoned that solving this mystery was beyond our capability.  I could think of no-one more qualified to come to our assistance than yourself, the Great Detective." 

"But _how_ did you do it?  How did I cross the borders between worlds?" 

"That, my good man, will be revealed.  _All_ will be revealed."

The corner of Holmes' mouth quirked in a smile.  "A favourite saying of mine, sir.  Now, let us discuss the details of this –_case_—from its beginning."__

Minerva and Dumbledore walked with Holmes towards the east corridor in Ravenclaw.  "We know that they're not Muggles, but they're not Wizards either," said Minerva.  "We've removed the bodies to the Hospital wing, and we put wards around the place where they were found, to keep anything from being touched or moved.  Professor Snape, our Potions Master, is an expert in the scientific method, and has solved many puzzles for us, but this is quite different than anything else we've experienced. We're most grateful for your help."

'I should have liked to see the bodies in the place where first you found them," stated Holmes.  "Done," said Dumbledore. A nod of his head and a little elf appeared ("House elves, very handy," explained the Headmaster).  He said a few words to the creature, and it ran at eye-blurring speed up the staircases, which, Holmes observed, had an unnerving habit of changing direction.  By the time they reached the scene of discovery, the bodies were back to where they had been found.  Holmes stopped in his tracks: what was _that_ floating around the bodies?  He began to walk forward once more and realised that he was facing _ghosts_, ectoplasmic entities with strange lives of their own.  One, he noticed, had been partially beheaded, and it smiled at him with an odd tip of that partly severed head.  The other tipped a bowler to him.

A wave of Dumbledore's wand, and the ghosts dissolved.  They approached the site.  The two corpses were lying one on top of the other, crosswise, both of them face-up, as if they had been dropped there deliberately.  Holmes circled the bodies, and then knelt at their side.  He took his favourite Swiss magnifier out of his pocket and looked carefully at the carpet, finally lying down full length to get a closer view.  "Singe marks," he said, and crawled on his belly a little further, peering through the magnifier.  He stopped short when he bumped into a pair of shoes:  stout black shoes, with pointed toes, brushed by black trousers.  He sat back on his heels and looked up the six feet one inch length of black garments, into an ugly countenance with a nasty sneer.

No stranger to sneering, Holmes rose up slowly to his full height, six feet one inch, raised his chin and glared down his nose.  He folded his arms.

Professor Snape broke the silence, without moving a muscle, and barely moving his mouth:  "_Misss-_ter Holmes, I presume?"  His voice was oily black baritone velvet.  Holmes drew himself up even more, as if that were possible, arched his eyebrows and, in high-pitched, peevish and most insulting of Oxbridgian tones, replied, " Master _Snipe_, is it?"

"_Snape."_

"Indeed."


	4. Chapter 4 All Will Be Revealed

**_Chapter Four: Two Massive Egos_**

Snape threw back his cloak with a theatrical gesture. "We are quite capable of resolving this situation," he purred. "Please refrain from getting in the way of the investigation. That will be your chief contribution."

Holmes still had not moved. _"Pompous ass,"_ he thought to himself. "I have been called to consult. I shall do so. You may _assist_ me."

Minerva curled her tail around her feet. She regarded the black-ringed tail. _I might have to stuff it into my mouth to keep from howling,_ she thought. There had been nothing for it but to resort to her Animagus form; cats don't laugh.

Not that they noticed her. From the moment Holmes had faced Snape, they stood stock-still; both of them, chins up, glaring down their noses, eyes slitted, arms folded. _I can't bear it, _she thought, furiously grooming her shoulder to hide her amusement. _It's incredible. They're so alike they _must_ be related._

Minerva ran quickly into an alcove, where she regained her human form and laughed until she feared for her knickers. They could go on like this all day! She saw Hermione Granger out of the corner of her eye, and beckoned her over. 

"Shh!" she cautioned. "You can't _imagine_ the ridiculous confrontation taking place!" Hermione's eyes sparkled. "Where? I must see them!" She ran up the staircase to the gallery overhead.

Snape's brows beetled. He flung out a long arm; finger pointed somewhere "offstage." 

"You, sir, may _stay out of my way!"_

Holmes' mouth produced a smirk identical to Snape's. "I shall _allow_ you to make every mistake you can, not that it will bring these unfortunate individuals back to life, but that it may teach you something about detection –of which, sir, it is obvious that you lack even the barest _rudiments_._" _He rolled the final "r" contemptuously to put Snape in his place.

Hermione lay on her back on the gallery carpet, kicking her feet, tears streaming from her eyes, both hands clamped over her mouth to keep her laughter from being heard. She knew, from her adventures into Doyle's Canon and Mrs King's Kanon, that Sherlock Holmes was tall, thin, greying; that he had grey eyes and an eagle's beak of a nose, and that his hands were long and elegant. Until she saw them facing each other, she hadn't realised that Snape, twenty years older, greyer and with a good haircut, would be (except for the colour of his eyes) a dead ringer for Holmes. She sat up abruptly. _Did Maura _write_ Holmes to look like Snape?_

She looked through the balusters. The two men were toe to toe, and now both had their heads thrust forward on their necks, reminding her of two vultures squaring off for a fight. _Oh, gods,_ she thought. _Holmes is a former boxer. If he punches Snape on the nose - the Professor will strike him with Cruciatus, or worse. Maura, I should have had you write at least their first meeting…_

Headmaster Dumbledore hastened to step between the two massive egos. "Now, gentlemen," he said, "Let's sit down in my office and work out a plan of action that is satisfactory to all." They trooped off, Holmes stumping his unsatisfactory walking stick, Snape swirling his black cloak.

An hour and a half later, Dumbledore rose from his conference table. Snape and Holmes rose also. "Well, gentlemen, I must commend you. Your plan is sound, and I have every confidence that you will _work together—_he eyed them both shrewdly – to solve the mystery."

He looked over at Holmes. There was no doubt that the Great Detective had it all: sophistication, refinement, education, daring and an almost-wizardly skill with inductive and deductive reasoning.

On the other hand, Severus Snape was a powerful wizard, and his methodical, logical and precise procedures had solved many puzzles and brought criminals to justice. Together, they should make an ideal detecting team, if they did not kill each other in the process.

"I'll have a house elf show you to your quarters," said Dumbledore to Holmes. "Please join us for luncheon and, of course, dinner. Minerva says the rest of the masters are keen to meet you."

Holmes swivelled his eyes sideways, and noticed the fleeting look of rejection on Snape's face: It was clear that no-one was especially keen to welcome _him. _

A thought occurred to Holmes. "Headmaster Dumbledore, I regret that I did not bring evening dress with me, as I did not think I would receive a dinner invitation whilst I was tramping the moor."

"The house-elves will see to your comfort," beamed Dumbledore. "We don't have distinguished guests often!" The little gnome who had appeared at breakfast blinked into existence at his elbow. "Master Dumbledore?"

"Nibby, conduct our guest, Mr Holmes, to a suite in Gryffindor which I have reserved for him," stated the Headmaster. "Luncheon is served at noontime in the dining hall, tea at four, and dinner at seven. We'll see you later," and he waved Holmes off cheerily.

Holmes followed the gnome up and down the many strange staircases, along an open-air colonnade with a view of the lake, round and round a tower and along many corridors. They stopped in front of a large portrait of a very stout lady. She looked at them, turning around in her chair. "Well?" she demanded. 

The little gnome whispered a password to the lady. Holmes was astounded; he could have _sworn_ the little creature said, _"Reichenbach Falls." _ She looked sharply at Holmes, said, "Oh, very well," and directly a door opened through the portrait frame. They passed through and found themselves in a large, comfortable sitting room, with two fireplaces, many squashy armchairs and small tables. Some students were clustered around a long wooden table, doing homework (writing with quills on parchment, Holmes noted); others were seated in armchairs, reading; some were playing chess or gossiping, heads together. There were girls as well as boys, and all wore black robes over their school uniforms. 

As he entered, all the students immediately sprang to their feet. _Well-mannered,_ thought Holmes with approval. Although he was far from fond of children, he recognised good breeding. He looked round at the group. "Good morning," he said. "I am Sherlock Holmes, lately of Sussex, England, and I will be spending some little time at Hogwarts on a project."

A young woman, probably a last-year student, approached him. "My name is Hermione Granger, sir," she said, and shook hands with him. "Welcome to our House." She lowered her voice; "I am aware of your project, sir, and I wish you all possible good fortune with it. Please do not hesitate to call on me if I can help."

Holmes nodded. She seemed intelligent, well spoken and forthright. _Of course; here's another Russell, albeit plainer in appearance and not quite so truculent in manner. _"Thank you, Miss Granger." He stopped as he prepared to follow the gnome: "Perhaps you will conduct me on a tour of the castle, at your convenience," he said.

His rooms were comfortable: a small sitting room with a fireplace, a worktable with a sturdy chair, a basket chair suspiciously like his favourite in his Sussex cottage, and a settee; a bedchamber with a large four-poster bed hung with heavy curtains, a large wardrobe and small chair, and a bathroom with what one would expect, including a large claw-footed tub. The wardrobe was filled with clothing. Holmes perused the trousers, shirts, jackets, coats, cloaks, robes, and boots – all his size. There was even an elegant evening dress suit, impeccable black broadcloth, a tailcoat with satin lapels and waistcoat, black tie and fine white dress shirt. 

"Your bath ready, Master," said the gnome, peering round the bathroom door. "Nibby help you, Master." The little creature held a long-handled brush, a loofah and an assortment of washcloths and sponges.

"No, thank you – er, Nibby," said Holmes. Nevertheless, the gnome, rather, the _house elf_, lingered at his side, taking up his clothes as he removed them, and setting a number of thick towels within easy reach of the bathtub. Holmes sank his aching bones gratefully into the steaming water; he had had a poor excuse for a bath at his lodgings in Edinburgh, and none at all during his tramp across the moor. As soon as he sat up, his back was briskly scrubbed. He looked for a washcloth, intending to wring it out of the hot water and put it on his face: the little elf handed it to him. As he relaxed in the tub, Nibby approached him with a shaving mug full of lather, brush and razor, and proceeded to give him the best shave he had had since leaving London and his favourite barbershop. _Hum, I could become accustomed to this,_ thought Holmes. 

When he was done with his bath, and wrapped in the towels held for him by the ubiquitous Nibby, Holmes looked through the wardrobe for appropriate clothing. He found a drawer filled with fine Scottish knit undergarments, another with socks and stockings, a very handsome Harris tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, and a pair of stout woollen trousers. Nibby chose a white linen shirt, a sleeveless jumper of lightweight wool, and a silk cravat of subdued and elegant pattern, and brought over Holmes' own boots, polished to a fare-thee-well. "It's a good thing these clothes were here, Nibby," remarked Holmes. "My own are hardly fit for the dustbin, after the past few days. "

"Clothes not _here,_ Master," said Nibby. "Nibby _bring them_ for you."

Holmes shook his head in wonderment. Clearly, magic existed amongst all the inhabitants of this world, from the lowly house-elves to the great warlock Dumbledore. Amazing, exciting, fabulous, to be in this place, surrounded by these people, witnessing this – this _magic!_

Holmes put his knapsack on the sitting-room work table, and withdrew his notebooks and a couple of cases of medical instruments, phials of chemicals and other apparatus he liked to carry when he travelled _just in case. _ He recalled the singed carpet fibres around the corpses; he would like to get a small sample…_Damn._ He and Snape had agreed, albeit grudgingly, to commence the investigation together, directly after luncheon. _Must I abide that strutting popinjay?_


	5. Chapter 5 He's Thrown His Toys Out the ...

**_Chapter Five:  He's Thrown His Toys Out the Pram_**

Snape gave out the homework assignments for the last class of the morning, spoke briefly with Vector, who would take his morning classes during the murder investigation, and stalked off to his dungeon laboratory.  Once there, he shut and warded the door.  _Oh, the ignominy of it, to have this Muggle meddler in _his laboratory_, handling _his equipment!_ Nobody_ was allowed to muck with his things!  Well, almost nobody… there was Miss Granger, his intern, of course, but she was different.  He could tolerate her presence; well, most of the time:  she had an unsettling propensity for argument, and seemed to delight in throwing his words in his face, challenging his statements, verbally cocking a snook at him whilst informing him that his pomposity was laughable.  She could insult him, contradict him, lecture him and rail at him, even say _No!_ to him, and although he gave back as good as he got, he rewarded her with learning, with challenge, with opportunities to stretch her already considerable abilities.  He had never encountered a mind like hers, as acute an intellect.  Grudgingly he had had to admit that she was his equal.  

_Then, there were times when he regarded her profile, with its long sweep of black lashes, straight little nose and soft mouth; her thick, wild, curly brown hair, and his traitor heart beat faster …_she was just finishing her last year, which made her still a student, and Head Girl or no… She was almost eighteen years old, taking into consideration her excursions with a Time-Turner.  He had wanted to wrap her in his embrace and kiss that soft mouth since she was fifteen, and he had, for the first time, noticed the woman she was fast becoming.  He could not do that.  So she dwelt in his mind, in his head, in his intellect, at his side, under his hand; she _was_ his right hand, his left brain and a formidable opponent in their many battles; a week without at least one good, knockdown, drag-out fight was rare.  She had actually become his _partner._

Snape stalked around his laboratory bench, over to his shelves, straightening phials arranged in perfectly straight rows, re-stacking precisely stacked boxes of herbs and dried ingredients, re-arranging jars of specimens that stood in military precision.  He flung himself into his desk chair, slouched down on the end of his spine and propped his boots on his desk, scowling.  He put his hands together; steepled his fingers and touched them to his lips.  _How, in the name of the nineteen minions of Hermes Trismegistus, was he going to solve the murder, with that self-righteous – _whatever he was_—in the way?_

Minerva had told him that Holmes was not a Muggle.  Well?  If he wasn't a Muggle (and he was _surely_ no Wizard), what was he?  _A construct,_ he thought.  _He's the product of the imagination of a Muggle author who lived almost a hundred years ago; he's not real.  I suppose, if Conan Doyle had written him to be a Wizard, that's what he would have been.  _

Snape swung his feet off his desk and got out of his chair.  He rummaged in a cabinet, looking for a particular book; it was not there, he must have returned it to Madam Pince's restricted section.  He paced back and forth, restless for an answer to a question he did not dare to voice:  _what if he could not solve this crime?  What if Holmes solved it?  _Bitterly, he remembered years in his past when others had taken the credit for his work. 

_What do I do?  Is this to be some obscene competition between myself and this—this literary phantasm made flesh?  Must I fight not only the odd and perplexing complications of this case but also the presence of someone who would most likely take delight in seeing me shamed?  _He stood up, pulled down his jacket and brushed off his cloak.  _I have a duty to Albus Dumbledore, and through him to Hogwarts and the entire Wizarding World,_ he thought dully.  I do the dirty work.  The sodding Detective will most likely take the credit.

And what of Miss Granger?  _Little busybody will be all over this glamourous figure,_ he thought sourly.   _Minerva, whom one would suppose had better sense, is besotted with him already.   _ He prepared to go down to luncheon.  _Luncheon.  I may vomit._

_***_

There was a knock on the door of Holmes' rooms.  "Mr Holmes! Come with us to luncheon!"  He opened the door, and there was Miss Granger with two of her chums.  He shook hands with Ron Weasley, an open-faced redhead, gangling his way up to more than six feet; and with Harry Potter, shorter, a little more circumspect, with an odd scar on his forehead.  Potter was Head Boy.  On their way down to the dining hall, the three explained the Houses and how Sorting was done; the subjects studied in different forms, and even the rudiments of Quidditch, which Holmes, no sports enthusiast, made a mental note to avoid at all costs.

"Of course, you couldn't very well play Quidditch, even though you're not a Muggle," stated Potter, who then looked as if he wished he could swallow his tongue. Miss Granger threw Potter a look that would shatter glass. 

"Not a Muggle, eh?  Well, I'm certainly not a Wizard," commented Holmes.  "I'm a bit long in the tooth to be buzzing round in a game of flying cricket on a broomstick!    Professor Dumbledore has some more explaining to do, I believe." 

They reached the dining hall, with its four long House tables and the Masters' table up front.  The giant, Hagrid, lurched up to them.  "Come with me, Mr Holmes," he rumbled.  "Guests sits at the Masters' table."  Holmes bade the students good-bye, and followed the huge man to his seat.  

Luncheon was astonishing, as breakfast had been:  the Headmaster stood, and the cheerful babble of students' voices hushed to silence.  Dumbledore spoke a blessing in some unintelligible language, and immediately great dishes of food appeared on the tables.  The young people set to with hearty appetites.  Holmes watched as a heaping dish of roasted chicken pieces was picked clean by hungry youngsters – and immediately it was magically refilled.

Holmes, who enjoyed good food, helped himself to grilled fish and prawns, rice pilaf, buttered Brussels sprouts and a tomato salad.  A house-elf poured what looked like apricot juice into his goblet.  One sip told him it was pumpkin juice, unusual in taste with a hint of spices, but it was pleasant and thirst quenching. 

Minerva McGonagall, on his right side, introduced the other Masters, who were most pleased to meet him, especially Poppy Pomfrey, the mediwitch, who blushed and simpered, entranced by the strange and charming visitor.  On his other side, Professor Flitwick, a tiny fellow, kept up a constant commentary on everything and everyone, a veritable verbal fountain of information.  Holmes, who could 'turn on' his sociable side as if it were a water faucet, conversed with his neighbours and entertained them with tales of some of his more outrageous cases, liberally embellished by his lively imagination.

Holmes glanced around:  Snape was not seated at the Masters' Table, nor was he anywhere else. _Sulking,_ he thought, with amusement.  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Snape was indeed at table, hidden behind Hagrid.  When the half-giant leaned over to chat with his neighbour's neighbour, Holmes noticed the Potions Master, sitting hunched over an almost empty plate, rearranging the few morsels of food, barely picking at his luncheon.  _Idiot,_ he thought. _ He's thrown his toys out the pram, hasn't he?  How childish, to fly into a pet because an expert was called in!_

Snape looked over at him and barely nodded.  Holmes, idling over an excellent cup of coffee and a cherry tart, thought,_ he wants to get this over with.  Let's get on with it, then. _ He made his apologies to the Masters and Mistresses, stood up (amazing how his chair pushed itself back on its own!) and walked over to Snape, who had risen from the table. "Lead on, Macduff," he said, and was amused when Snape smirked and said, "Macbeth."


	6. Chapter Six Reluctant Colleagues

**_Chapter Six:  Reluctant Colleagues_**

"You miserable shite!" roared Holmes.  "You just went out of your way, _on purpose, _to interrupt my procedure for haemoglobin determination!"

Snape paled to an indeterminate greenish hue, two red spots appearing on his cheekbones.  "How _dare_ you speak to me like that, you vulgar toad!  'Interrupt' _your_ determination, indeed, sir, I was doing it _without a wand_ while you were still tottering your puerile way through that abomination called the Muggle school system!" he bellowed.

Holmes looked down his nose at the younger man.  "I would say, sir, that _I _was creating the science of forensics, to the acclamation of authorities all over Britain and the Continent as well, when _you¸_ sir, were pissing your nappies."  He chuckled malevolently. "Too busy playing – what is it, _Quibbage,_ larking about on a broomstick, to make it into university, old chap?"

Snape merely looked at him with shuttered eyes. "No," he finally said and turned away. 

Holmes found the look familiar. Then he remembered a tea his long time friend and associate Dr John Watson had once hosted for his former Army colleagues (though 'brandy' would have been a more accurate word, given the beverage actually served). It had been held in a small tea shop, and some drunken sot had wandered by**,** asked a similar question, and met with a similar response from a man that Holmes knew from Watson's reminiscences had once been captured by the Pathans. _  I may have made a similar error_, he thought, and resolved to find out precisely what the gloomy professor had actually been up to. 

For some reason, perhaps from some unnoticed clues that had not yet made their way into his awareness, he considered the likelihood that although his own approach to the castle had been easy, Hogwarts was a place under siege despite its deceptively peaceful appearance. 

Snape returned to the laboratory bench.  "I would not normally forgive such effrontery," said he, " but it's clear you speak from ignorance. The Headmaster has said we must work together. The last time I did not pay attention to him in such a matter somebody died."  He leaned his hand on the dark slate; his black eyes bored into Holmes' grey gaze.  "What do you say, gaffer, will you drink whiskey?"

"For my part, I apologise for the comment. It was uncalled for," Holmes said, though he was keen to know _why_. "Whiskey?  Don't mind if I do."

Snape opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of Old Ogden's Firewhiskey and two glasses.  He poured a couple of fingers into each glass and handed one to Holmes.

The detective brought the glass to his lips and tossed the whiskey down in one swallow.  He closed his eyes, then opened them, and shook himself all round.  When he stood up, he seemed somewhat restored.

"I say, Snape, we are on the same side of this investigation.  I should not have pulled rank on you; I've been doing it for so many years it seems to come naturally.  Now, let's get back to work."

Snape eyed the older man.  He sipped his whiskey.  "I am unaccustomed to working with anyone else, I am solitary by nature," he said.  "I will endeavour to be more tolerant, for the sake of the case."  He thought for a moment.  "Actually, my intern has badgered and debated and logicked me into submission of late, and truth to tell, I find your company, as irritating as it is, less abrasive than hers."  A ghost of a smile lifted a corner of his mouth.  "Although, I must admit, she continues to astonish me with her abilities."

Holmes raised his eyebrows.  "Intern?  It wouldn't be that Miss Granger, would it?"

"How did you know? _ Of course_, the Headmaster gave you lodgings in Gryffindor, and the insufferable busybody and know-it-all must have been at your door directly you entered your rooms."

Holmes threw back his head and laughed. "Yes, yes, indeed, she was, and quite the officious young lady."   _So you've got your Russell, do you? And quite a toothsome morsel, indeed.   Not a word, Holmes, he said to himself, smirking._


	7. Chapter 7 Investigative Methodology

Chapter Seven:  Investigative Methodology 

Holmes and Snape fussed at each other like two old ladies, slapping each other's hands out of the way, snatching test tubes and beakers and retorts from one another:

"Go to!" 

 "Snape, _must_ you put your beak into my reagent solution?"  

"Bugger off!" 

 "Get _away, _get away from that distillery, you'll ruin it!" 

 "Stop that, you old stoat!  Stop breathing into my cauldron!"

 "Get your big Celtic hands _off _my magnifier, you oaf!"

In fact, they were having the most splendid time: they had discovered in each other a like, brilliant mind.  They made a tacit if unvoiced agreement to present a hostile and adversarial appearance, but they had forged the beginnings of an association of geniuses. 

They agreed that the unfortunate victims had suffered from hypoxia – but they had not drowned, neither had they been strangled.   Holmes' haemoglobin determination had proven that lack of oxygen had killed the men, and Snape had confirmed that there was no detectable presence of poison.  However, he continued to work on tissue and body fluid samples for clues relating to the time of death and the cause, as some poisons accomplished their murderous task and then dissipated. 

Holmes obtained a sample of the singed carpet fibres and was hard at work determining whether or not the singeing was related to the murder.  At the same time, he found that the edges of the deceased's robes were also slightly singed, quite evenly.  _How had the corpses come to Hogwarts?  Were they corpses when they arrived, or live beings?_

Holmes resolved to investigate any unusual comings and goings during the past several days.

"Now, Snape, what about delivery-men and workmen coming to the castle?  I walked over without any difficulty. "

"No-one can get past the wards without our allowing them entrance," answered Snape.  "You were expected, or you would not even have seen the castle when you exited the Forbidden Forest."

 'Indeed," answered Holmes.  "Let us speak to anyone who might notice someone on the edge of the property, someone who might have slipped past the wards and then walked casually through the grounds, as if they belonged there."  

"If anyone, Wizard or Muggle, attempts to breach the wards surrounding Hogwarts and its property, the alarms begin to sound," said Snape.  "You were expected, and the wards were set to recognise you."

"Hum," said Holmes.  "If anyone had attempted an intrusion, of course the alarms would have been tripped.  But, " he slouched down in his chair, propped his feet on a footstool and steepled his fingers,  "we've agreed that there is no lock – or charm, if you will – that can't be broken – or _picked_.  "  He proceeded to give Snape a demonstration of his expertise with the picklocks on an unwarded, locked Potions cabinet.  Snape was entranced.

"Fascinating!  Although, Holmes, I don't know if you can say the same for magical locks."  He thought a moment.  "Well, why not?  I've undone spells and curses numerous times, and as it is said, there is nothing new under the Sun."

Holmes leant forward, his grey eyes narrowed.  "What if…someone who ordinarily comes to Hogwarts came in, as usual? "

"What do you mean?  Are you speaking of delivery men, or Hogsmeade merchants who have business at the Castle?"  Snape leant forward towards Holmes.

"Exactly!" said the detective.  "Now, the groundskeeper – Hagrid, is it?  Anyone making a delivery would have to report to him, is that correct?  He would know if someone came to Hogwarts on the day the corpses appeared."

Snape stood up.  "Hagrid knows everyone who comes to Hogwarts from the outside," he said.  "I doubt he'll have much to say, but you can ask him.  I have little patience with interviews, and I must be off.  I have, er, obligations to address.  We'll meet in the laboratory as usual, to-morrow morning. "

Holmes' eyes gleamed.  "It's all in the method, all in the method, my dear Snape.  I shall conduct the interview; I shall beard the half-giant in his den." 

"Very well," said Snape.  He swirled out of the door.  Odd, thought Holmes, or maybe not so odd; Snape didn't look well at all.  _The man has no palate, not fond of his victuals,_ Holmes mused.  His observant eye had noticed Snape's cadaverous thinness and dreadful colour, his nervous mannerisms and, for the past hour, the Wizard's unconscious rubbing at his forearm.  _Neuralgia, perhaps.  A good physic would work wonders._  Holmes tucked his note-pad into his rucksack, slung it over his shoulder and headed for Hagrid's hut. 

Holmes knocked on the heavy wooden door.  Loud barking, baying and growling sounded immediately. _What the devil's he got in there?_ Holmes wondered.   Holmes could see a bottle-bottom glass pane set too high in the door for him to peer into; probably, it was the half-giant's peep-hole, for the door opened, filled with Hagrid's huge bulk.

"Mr Holmes!" he boomed.  "What can I do for yer?  Come in!" 

"Er, Hagrid, your hounds…"  

"Pay him no mind, sir, that's just Fang, he _likes_ company!"  Hagrid grabbed Holmes' arm and dragged him inside.  The hut seemed much larger inside than it had appeared from the outside:  they stood in a large main room with a giant-sized fireplace, a heavy oaken table with six chairs, a large settee, and in front of the fire, two enormous armchairs with footstools in front of them and small tables next to them.  On one side there was another table, with what looked like kitchen utensils, bowls and pots; a rack hung over this table, on the rack were skillets, spiders, colanders and such.  Cabinets, cupboards and shelves lined the walls; the half-giant obviously lived a comfortable life.

The fire was blazing, and a teakettle on the hob began to whistle.  "Come in, come in!" urged Hagrid, tugging Holmes towards the round oak table. "Ye're just in time for tea, and I've got fresh rock-cakes!"  

Holmes looked around for the source of the ominous canine chorus, and his eyes came to rest on Fang, a large, untidy hound of indeterminate heritage, lying on his back, his feet in the air, his tail wagging vigorously, his head on the side, tongue lolling, in that idiotically endearing way dogs have when they are pleased. "Sit down, sir," said the half-giant, bustling around in search of the teapot.  "I'll have the tea ready in a moment, or would yer prefer a short snort instead?"   Hagrid chuckled at his joke and retrieved an enormous jug of Old Ogden's Firewhiskey from the side table.  

He brought it over, found two beer steins and plumped himself down.  Leaning over conspiratorially, he said, "Lots o' surprises for ye, eh, Mr Holmes?  I wager ye never saw anythin' like Hogwarts before!"

"Indeed," answered Holmes.  "Hagrid, much as I would enjoy hearing of your adventures, and I am sure they are many, I have come to ask you but one question."

The half-giant chuckled.  "I don't know as I got answers, sir.  Sometimes I thinks that questions just bring 'round more questions."

"Yes, yes, that is profound, Hagrid, and quite true.  Please do try to remember, if you would, who came to the castle on Thursday."

Hagrid looked at him oddly.  "There's many who comes every day, but Thursday, ah, Thursday," He poured whiskey into the beer steins and shoved one in front of Holmes.  "Let's drink to the mystery!" he boomed, hoisting his glass.  

Holmes regarded his drink, a stein full of Ogden's that would drop Watson on his bum, but he was made of sterner stuff.  He raised the stein, touched it to Hagrid's, and said, "To the _solution _of the mystery!

Hagrid began to tick off Thursday's visitors on his fingers: "Lessee, there was Brown Tom the dairyman, he's always first right after sunrise.  Ye can hear his bottles clinkin' and clankin' as he drives his wagon up to the side door where the house-elves takes in the milk an' cream an' butter and such."

"And you saw him personally?"

  
"O'course I seen him!  Didn't he give me my milk and cheese, you?'"

"Good, so Brown Tom came as always.  Did you see him leave?"

Hagrid leaned back in his chair and regarded Holmes with a suspicious eye.  "Why?" he asked.

Holmes took a sip of whiskey.  "My good man, in trying to solve a mystery we must account for everyone who was already_ in_ the place, those who came and those who left."  He put his finger alongside his nose, narrowed his eyes and leaned over to Hagrid:  "_Who knows what evil lurks in the minds of men!_"

Hagrid's already round eyes popped. "Cor!" he exclaimed.  "Ye're right, Mr Holmes, o'course.  Well, I seen Brown Tom drivin' off in his wagon, made note for to tell him his horse is fetchin' up to be lame, an' I'll make 'im a poultice."

And so it went, Holmes patiently instructing Hagrid in the correct way to respond to a detective's questions, drawing out information the half-giant did not realise he possessed, and obtaining a good feel for the daily commerce of Hogwarts Castle.

They had finished their whiskey, Holmes' self-discipline the only thing that kept him from collapsing where he sat and mumbling into his empty stein, and it was full dark.  Holmes realised that they had been talking for about three hours; they had probably missed dinner.  Hagrid was becoming increasingly uneasy.

Holmes, ever sensitive to the inclinations of others, said, "Hagrid, you seem perturbed.  Have I kept you over-long from your evening duties?"  

Hagrid looked slightly relieved, but still shifted back and forth on his chair.  "I have to run some errands for Headmaster Dumbledore," he said.  

"Perhaps I can accompany you," offered Holmes.  "I could use the exercise, and it would be useful to the case for me to learn more about the comings and goings at Hogwarts."

Hagrid sighed. "It's a quick run, Mr Holmes, but it's in the Forbidden Forest, and the Headmaster says I am to keep yer out of it.  I'll take Fang; it'll be just a short while.  Stay here, why don't yer, nice an' snug by the fire, and I'll be back pretty quick."

"Very well, I shall await your return," said Holmes.  The half-giant threw a huge cloak over his frame, whistled for Fang, and man and beast made off in the direction of the Forest.

Holmes stood up and quietly let himself out of the cottage.  Fortunately Hagrid was still in sight; moving like a wraith from tree to tree, and Holmes shadowed the half-giant's movements.

There was no doubt that the Forbidden Forest was an ugly place.  Bats flitted about; owls hooted; thick spider-webs clung unpleasantly to his face and clothing.  Holmes tripped over a thick root; when he regained his footing, Hagrid was nowhere to be found.  Holmes was a Londoner, a city boy, and although he had traversed his share of forests, none were as ominous as this one.  _I shall return to the cottage, _he thought, and turned about.  However, in fifteen minutes or so he tripped over the same root:  he had been walking in a circle.

Far be it from Holmes to admit that he was lost.   _I shall find a clearing, look up at the sky and triangulate my position from the North Star_, thought he, rummaging in his pockets for his compass and a couple of lucifers. He had just found his clearing when he heard a dragging noise.  Quickly, he flattened himself against a tree and held his breath.  Then he heard a human sound:  panting.  Hagrid lumbered into sight, panting, dragging what seemed to be a human being on an improvised slide made out of his cloak.

Homes stepped out in front of him.  "Hagrid," he said sternly, "what or who have you there?"

"Oh, Mr Holmes," gasped the big man, "He's so poorly off I'm feared he might die this time!  Help me get him to the castle, we got to get him to Madam Pomfrey!"

Holmes quickly approached the prone figure.  He struck a lucifer against the sole of his shoe and held it aloft.  It was Professor Snape, unconscious, and from the looks of him, beaten half to death.

Holmes helped Hagrid to sling Snape's unconscious body across his back, and together they set off at a run for the castle.  Hagrid began to shout when they were still a good number of paces away, but his booming voice caused doors and windows to fly open, and as they approached the big double doors, Madam Pomfrey ran towards them with her two nurse aides, a stretcher in mid air between them.

"Oh, poor Severus, not again!"  Madam Pomfrey pulled her wand out of her sleeve:  "_Wingardium Leviosa!" _she pronounced, and Snape's body levitated off Hagrid's shoulders and onto the stretcher.  Then, they set off for the hospital wing, Holmes and Hagrid trailing behind.

Madam Pomfrey manoeuvred the stretcher over to a bed, pulled the curtains around it, and waved Holmes and Hagrid away: "You can see him later, after I've had a chance to get him stabilised."  She sneezed, looked surprised, buried her face in a large linen handkerchief, and disappeared inside the curtains, followed by her aide, Sister Brigit.  Holmes leaned against a statue of a Crusader Knight and fixed Hagrid with his steely eyes.  "My good man, you might as well tell me everything," he said evenly.


	8. Chapter Eight: Monstrous, Monstrous

**Chapter Eight:  Monstrous, Monstrous**

Hagrid sighed a half-giant sized sigh.  "It's 'Him-What-Must-Not-Be-Named," he said.  "He called for the Death Eaters to attend on him, and poor Professor Snape, o'course, had to go."

Holmes shuddered. _Death Eaters…._"Tell me all," he said.  He followed Hagrid downstairs to a small parlour off the Great Hall, and the two settled themselves in front of the blazing fire.  A house-elf brought them a tea-cart with sandwiches and tea, and then disappeared.

An hour later, Holmes dearly regretted the loss of his pipe; it would have helped him to order his whirling mind.  He addressed Hagrid:  "So Snape was a Death Eater, in service to this Dark Lord," he murmured.  "The Dark Lord called a meeting, and Snape was compelled to go; even though he's a Death Eater no more; he's turned his coat, and has become a spy for the Light," he said slowly.  "And his arm, he was rubbing his arm before, is that how he is summoned?"

"Yes, sir," said Hagrid.  "He bears the Dark Mark, and it hurts him somethin' awful when he's called, and he has to go."

"Monstrous," said Holmes.  "Monstrous. I thought I had seen ultimate evil in my world, but the Great War, the criminals – they are _nothing _compared to the horror of this creature and his minions.  With Dark Magic, as you've explained it, at his command, he could do anything – go anywhere…" He put his head in his hands.  _Russell…_

With Snape disabled, there was nothing for it:  he had to continue to solve the perplexing murder on his own.  But there was more: he had defeated some of the most brilliant and noxious criminal minds of his era:  could he help to vanquish this one?   He poured himself a second cup of tea.  "Hagrid," he said, "is there an organised effort to rid the Wizarding World of this devil?"

"Yes, you might say so," said the half-giant.  "Every witch and wizard, pureblood or Muggleborn, who isn't part of his group o'demons, wants him gone.  But no-one knows how to make war on him; he's so powerful.  Could be, could be that the young folks, young Harry and his friends, will get the best o'him at the end."

"They're children!" protested Holmes.  "To send children out to fight an insane monster and his army of devils – that's folly!  What are the _grown men_ doing?"

Hagrid looked down, dispirited.  He opened his mouth to reply when a sudden flare of flames in the fireplace and a loud "Whoosh!" announced someone using the Floo network to reach the parlour.  Holmes turned around, and saw, in the flames, the thin face and carrot-red hair of Sister Brigit, Madam Pomfrey's aide.  Her already large eyes were enormous in her white face.

"Oh, Mister Holmes, please come at once," she said in a strained voice.

"What is it, Sister?" the detective asked, dreading her answer.  "Is it Professor Snape – has he taken a turn for the worse? "

"No!" cried Sister Brigit.  "  "It's Madam Pomfrey. She's sick – and worse than that.  She's _lost her magic."_

Holmes stood up. _I am at a loss, _he thought.  "Call Headmaster Dumbledore, immediately!" he ordered.  Hagrid took a handful of powder from the box on the mantelpiece, threw it into the fire, bent down and roared, "Headmaster!"

After a moment, Dumbledore's face appeared in the flames.  "Yes, Hagrid?" he asked.

"Headmaster, ye'd better come quick to the hospital ward.  Madam Pomfrey's lost her magic."

The old wizard's face was a study in astonishment.  "I'm on my way," he said, and his image vanished.  "Come on, Hagrid, we had better go there as well," said Holmes grimly.  "It seems that our simple murder mystery has taken on darker overtones."  

Holmes and Hagrid pounded up the staircases and burst into the hospital ward, upon a scene of chaos.  Madam Pomfrey was sitting uncomfortably on a hospital bed, sneezing repeatedly into a linen handkerchief that was becoming more sodden with each sneeze.  Next to her, Padma Patil, who had been in the infirmary with a Quidditch-wrenched ankle, was waving her wand, trying vainly to dry the handkerchief.  Sister Agrippina, another of Madam Pomfrey's aides, cast charm after charm to cure the ailing mediwitch – to no avail.  Worst of all, Madam Pomfrey herself pronounced spell after spell, between sneezes – she might have been reciting the alphabet.

Headmaster Dumbledore hastened up to her and put his arm around her shoulder.  "Poppy, Poppy, my dear, what's happened? Has someone put a sneezing hex on you?"

Madam Pomfrey took one look at the kindly old wizard and burst into tears on his shoulder.  

"Albus – my magic, it's gone – and I feel so strange, so hot, I ache…".

Dumbledore patted her back.  He waved over Sister Brigit:  "What happened, Sister?"

The red-haired aide put her hand on Madam Pomfrey's forehead.  "She's burnin' up, sir, I never saw such a heat in a wizard—" she put her small oval hands side by side and passed them over Madam Pomfrey's body.  "She's achin', her joints are sore an' swollen, sir. I'm tryin' to cool her a bit."

Holmes looked sharply at Sister Brigit.  "Sister, can you tell if her lungs are affected?"

"Yes, yes, sir, she's got fluid in her lungs, it's a bad sort, with evil little beasties in it."

Holmes' blood ran cold, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck.

_Influenza._


	9. Chapter 9 The Scourge

The Scourge 

Literally on the heels of the War to End All Wars, an exhausted world populace faced another menace.  This scourge respected no national or continental boundaries, preyed alike on rich and poor, old and young.  In 1918, influenza swept over Britain and the Continent.  For every victim that survived, one died. There was no preventative, no cure.

Holmes had seen the face of the scourge at close range:  both he and his close friend John Watson had survived influenza early in the 1890s.   Perhaps, Holmes mused, that was why he himself had not contracted the disease.  He was quite worried that Russell, indifferent to her own health up at Oxford amongst people who could have carried the disease, would be stricken.  Trust Russell to forget to eat until she was at the point of fainting; to scorn mufflers, hats, shawls and galoshes and tramp about in the cold and wet in her shabby old mac and leather shoes; to disdain sleep and work days on end without ever seeing her bed.

He had to admit that he was guilty of similar offences against his own person; deep in the coils of a case, he had little regard for his own well-being, little say his own safety.  Still, Russell was – what was she, indeed? His apprentice, his intern, his assistant?  His heart told him otherwise.  From the time more than three years ago when she had literally stumbled upon him on Sussex Downs, she had been his obsession, his Muse.  For every time he had railed at her, indulging his bad temper and impatience, he had soothed her boiling anger and reinforced her determination. Turnabout was fair play:  for every time she had challenged him outright, snapped and growled at him and slashed him unmercifully with her razor wit, she had bound up his wounds, comforted and supported him.  _He loved her.  He loved her to distraction, and it grieved him sorely that he could not love her, as she deserved._

No, he told himself self-righteously, he was _not_ what she deserved.  She deserved a young man, cheerful and pleasant and enthusiastic, who would give her a houseful of jolly, round-cheeked cherubs, call her "my old Dutch," entertain lavishly at Christmas and birthdays and holidays with her.  She did not deserve a cranky, set-in-his-ways, self-absorbed and solitary old swot who would give her little affection and eschew society, family and comradely connexions as if they were the Devil's own torments.

Yet, she was his life and breath, and the thought of Russell laid low with the impersonal killer that respected no bonds or relationships, was like a leaden weight on his heart.  _I must know that she is well_, he thought.  Although he had discovered that Hogwarts, magical or no, had no telephone, the village nearby must have one, or a telegraph office at the very least.  He still had not received a satisfactory explanation as to _how_ he had arrived at Hogwarts.  No matter: he was here now, there was a mystery to be solved, and now an epidemic to prevent.

He could do no good by standing at Snape's bedside or trying to figure out what was wrong with Madam Pomfrey.  If he could reach Watson, he could have him send some of the sulpha powders that seemed to ease the symptoms of influenza in some cases.  He could try to reach Russell as well, and set his mind at ease that she was well.

Holmes turned to the Headmaster:  "Sir, it would be best if you established a quarantine straightaway.  It is possible that anyone who has touched Madam Pomfrey or been close to her may be stricken with influenza, which she appears to have.  If the students can be kept away from the infirmary, and no-one leaves it for the time being, perhaps it can be contained."

"Influenza?  I've read about the Muggle epidemics," said Dumbledore. "We are in general untouched by diseases that attack non-wizarding communities."  He looked sharply at Holmes.

_Had he carried the dread disease to Hogwarts?  _Carriers often spread the sickness before they themselves experienced its symptoms.  But if that were so, it was too quick:  Madam Pomfrey had just met him the day before, and influenza had a two week incubation period before it manifested its presence.

"The influenza which has stricken Madam Pomfrey was not carried by myself," Holmes stated, and explained the theory of its contagion and incubation. "As you say, you are in general untroubled by illnesses which afflict non-wizards.  It would therefore stand to reason that _this _influenza is meant specifically to infect you, and the infection is deliberate.  However, Madam Pomfrey's loss of her magical ability may or may not be linked to the influenza, and may be a one-time occurrence."   Holmes' eyes glittered; he felt the familiar rush of exhilaration and sharpening of focus that accompanied his insight into a complex case.

A loud sneeze punctuated the ensuing silence.  It was followed by a shrill screech from Madam Pomfrey's bedside.  As one, Dumbledore, Holmes and Sister Brigit turned and ran to the mediwitch's screened bed.  Poppy was sitting up, her cold compress half off her forehead, holding the hand of a wailing Sister Agrippina. 

"I – I was changing Poppy's linens, she'd perspired so heavily they were soaked, and – and – " Unable to go on, she collapsed onto the side of the bed, sobbing.  The said linens were in an untidy bunch, half on and half off the bed.  Sister Agrippina's wand hung limply in her hand.

"She's lost her magic too," said Poppy, and lay back on her pillow.  Sister Brigit withdrew a wand from her sleeve and passed it over the bed; instantly, the soiled linens sailed over to a nearby hamper. Fresh, crisp, clean sheets appeared on the bed under the patient.

"What with Poppy and Agrippina sick, we need some help," said Sister Brigit.  "I'll Floo St Mungo's and see how they're faring, if they've got any influenza cases."

"Hold off a bit," advised Holmes.  "Let us see if my theory holds up.  Sister Brigit, when were you, Madam Pomfrey and Sister Agrippina last at close quarters?"

"It was when we went to fetch the corpses," said the red-haired aide.  "We were gathered round them as Poppy levitated them onto the stretcher."

"I think you may be the next affected," said Holmes.

"Och, no, I don't think so, sir.  Ye know that druids have a special earth bond that protects us—" A strange look passed over the woman's face, and she put her hand over her mouth.

"She's going to sneeze," sniffled Sister Agrippina.  "Oh, who will take care of us, and anyone else who's sick?  What about Professor Snape, he's just barely stabilised?"  She sneezed twice, groaned, and mopped her streaming eyes.

Sister Brigit didn't sneeze.  She turned on her heel and ran as fast as she could to the bathroom, where she spent the next few minutes throwing up everything, seemingly, she had eaten in the past week.  Weakly, she reached for her wand to clean up the mess on the floor.  Nothing happened.  "Mother!" she cried out feebly, and tried to stand up, only to faint on the white tile.

Holmes quickly ran into the bathroom and lifted the slight woman in his arms.  He carried her to a nearby bed and put her down gently.  He felt her wrist; her pulse was faint.  When he listened to her breathing, he could hear the rattle in her lungs; she was the worst off.

How suddenly it had struck!  In only a few minutes, three people had been laid low by the disease.  Holmes straightened: Snape!  He had been the first to touch the bodies, after Filch had gone to bring him.  The detective immediately walked to the bedside of the stricken wizard.  Madam Pomfrey had evidently been able to stabilise him before she fell ill:  the Potions Master slumbered peacefully; the livid marks on his face and body were faded almost to nothing.  Holmes bent over him and listened to his chest:  normal breathing sounds.  He put his hand on the man's forehead:  normal temperature.  He hoped that Snape would awaken whole and sound – and quickly.

There was nothing more he could do at this moment; he resolved to go into the town and make his telephone calls, send his telegrams.  He approached the Headmaster and began to tell him what he was going to do, but Albus Dumbledore was busy retching into a basin, the gagging sounds interspersed with sneezes.

"You go on, Mr Holmes," wheezed the Headmaster.  "Hagrid can get you to Hogsmeade to make your call.  I'll stay here and keep quarantine.  Minerva…someone, please see to Professor McGonagall, she may have been infected."

"You must drink liquids, all of you," stated Holmes.  "I shall tell the first House Elf I see to bring Professor McGonagall, as well as tea and juices."

The Headmaster waved a hand at him, bending again over his basin. 

Holmes exited the hospital wing at a goodly speed, intent on finding Hagrid, who would probably be the best chance of his getting to town quickly.

***

Professor Snape stirred in his hospital bed.  Gradually he swam up through the soft depths of the therapeutic slumber.  He was aware that he was terribly thirsty, a common situation upon awakening from a post-Cruciatus sleep.  He opened his eyes, and at the same time became aware of noises around him in the infirmary:  sneezing, coughing.  Someone was vomiting.  He sat up and looked around; the curtain that had been drawn around his bed was pulled back, and he could see across the floor.  In the bed next to his, Sister Agrippina lay, coughing feebly.  Across the floor he could see Madam Pomfrey propped up on pillows, a handkerchief held to her face.  Was that the red hair of Sister Brigit in the next bed, unmoving?  

_Mother of Cagliostro on a crutch, Dumbledore!  _The Headmaster was sitting on the edge of a bed, a large emesis basin in his hands.  He looked terrible.  As Snape watched, the old man held his beard aside and retched into the basin.

Over at the end of the room, he thought he saw one of the Patil sisters, lying in a bed, coughing terribly. What in the name of the Nine Hells was happening?  Snape sat up, and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He was not dizzy; this last episode had not been as dreadful as some of the Dark Lord's punishments.  He held on to the bedside table and rose to his feet.  As he did so, three House Elves ran into the infirmary, each one pushing a tea-cart.  Nibby approached the Potions Master:  "Master Snape, you is all so sick, Master Holmes is saying you must drink many liquids."   The House Elf handed him a tall glass of pumpkin juice; Snape downed it gratefully. 

"What has happened here?" he asked. 

"Influenza," said the little creature.  "Master Holmes is going to get his doctor friend to send special medicine."

"Snape!"  A hoarse call drew his attention.  Poppy Pomfrey waved her hand to him. "Please, come over here!"  The Potions Master approached the mediwitch's bed.

"I assume you have more complete information about this influenza," he stated.  "I do not seem to be afflicted."

"No, you don't," she said.  "I was dreadfully sick for about an hour, then I slept, and now I seem to be recovering.  From what Mr Holmes told us of this disease, that's unheard of."

"I've heard of the influenza epidemics that swept the Muggle community after the First War," Snape stated.  "Wizards are not affected by such; this is most unusual."

"You have no idea how unusual," Poppy responded.  "I've lost my magic.  So have we all, including the Headmaster.  Severus, we were the first to be in contact with those dead bodies!"

"If that is so, why don't I have it? And why does Miss Patil have it?"

"It's highly contagious, and Padma must have gotten it from me.  As to why you're not affected, I haven't the faintest."  She looked at him, with a ghost of her old tart sense of humour.  "Perhaps the disease is repelled by a high degree of snark."

Snape smirked.  "How fortunate for me, then.  In any case, Poppy, I seem to be in the best shape of you lot.  I shall help as best I can."

"Thank you," said the mediwitch.  "Please see to Albus and Minerva.  They were the last in, and could use your sympathetic touch."  She smirked back at him.

"Humph," said Snape, and billowed off to attend to the Headmaster and McGonagall.  As he approached the door of the infirmary, he stopped suddenly.  "Where's Holmes?" he demanded.

"He set off to make a telephone call from Hogsmeade.  His associate there can get some Muggle medicine which may be helpful," Poppy Pomfrey called after him.  Snape whirled and strode back to the Headmaster.

"We can't let him go there!" he grated.  "He'll be discovered!  I can just hear it:  'Sherlock Holmes is a character in a book!  Who d'you think you're trying to fool?'  We've got to stop him, we need him here!"  Snape ran down the stairs and flew across the great hall like an ambulatory bat.  He was just in time to see Hagrid leading Holmes to the great fireplace in the entryway: the master Floo station.  Hagrid took a handful of Floo powder from the chalice on the mantelpiece, tossed it into the hearth, and as Snape bellowed, **"_Hagrid!  No!"_** the half-giant and the detective vanished into the flames.


	10. Chapter 10 Into the Frying Pan

Chapter Ten…Into the Frying Pan

There was a terrific burst of blue flame; a cloud of smoke, and Hagrid staggered backwards out of the fireplace, covered with soot, his beard smouldering. Sherlock Holmes, his coattails edged with glowing coals, followed him, his face besmirched black, and his eyes red with fury as he confronted Snape.

"What the devil have you done?" he bellowed. An unpleasant sensation at his backside caused him to swat at the back of his coat.

"Oof, sir, yer coat's afire!" shouted Hagrid, and proceeded to smack Holmes about the bum with the flat of his hand."

"Quit that! Get your hands OFF me!" roared the detective. "Your beard's burning, Hagrid!"

Snape reached into his sleeve for his wand and quickly extinguished Hagrid's beard and Holmes' coat with one economical, contained swish and flick. "It's luck, pure luck that I was standing here when you idiots were rejected by the Floo network!" he exclaimed. His eyes were obsidian slits. "It's you, Holmes. The Floo won't accept Muggles." He drew himself up, dusted off his hands and prepared to stalk away.

"Not so fast, Snape, not so fast!" Holmes hastened after the Potions Master. "What are you talking about, 'won't accept Muggles?' Give me a horse, man, anything to get me to town! I must contact Watson!"

Snape wheeled about. "And, I suppose, your precious Russell, whom I am weary to death of hearing about, Holmes? Your brilliant intern, who helps you to solve your mysteries and just happens to come up with solutions to puzzling problems?" He snorted. "In your absence, your paragon of an intern is probably gambling his last penny away with his mates, or drinking himself into a fine stupor in the neighbourhood pub!"

Holmes' fists curled loosely, he crouched slightly. "Now," he purred, his voice as silkily oily as Snape's, "why don't you toss about some new insults more fitting to a – a schoolmaster, Snape?" He became aware of three open-mouthed faces at his side: just what he needed, three students watching his set-to with their Potions Master!

Hermione, Harry and Ron had just entered the Great Hall at that moment, on their way to the library. Hermione quickly motioned to the boys to go on ahead when she saw the two adversaries: at it again? "Stop it!" she cried, running to Snape's side. "This is foolish, to waste time arguing!" She rounded on Holmes: "Mr Holmes, you must have a primer on magic immediately if we are to do anything. Have you heard of the Law of Contagion?"

Holmes looked down his nose at her. He was working himself up to a fine tear; bad enough he had been thwarted in his efforts to reach Watson and Russell; now he must contend with the school's official Know-It-All. Somewhere, Russell was laughing; he was sure of it. "Well, Miss Granger? What is it? I've never heard of it!"

Snape sniggered. "While you are expounding at excruciating length, displaying your comprehensive knowledge of magical theory, Miss Granger, I shall repair to my private office and do some real work on the problem!" Hermione hurried after him, dragging a reluctant Holmes.

"Now, here's how it works," she began, unconsciously assuming her "Know-It-All" pedagogical voice, "anything that is either a part of, or has had proximity to, an entity, whether it be a structure, a being, a natural phenomenon; a waterspout, say; or et cetera, is capable of taking on the properties of that structure or being or phenomenon, as a traveller will take a splinter of wood from his doorpost before setting out on a journey; through the Laws of Contagion, the splinter becomes the doorpost, symbolising—"

"Stop!" cried Holmes. "If you were not bent on running me to death up and down these interminable staircases, you will certainly put an end to me with your stultifying polemic! Have done with the lesson!"

Hermione stopped, as bid. She looked sharply at Holmes. "Indeed," she said. "One would think that Russell had schooled you better." She put her nose in the air and sailed onwards, towing Holmes behind her, muttering, "…damned intellectual prodigies…"

They stopped at the door to Snape's private office. Holmes looked down at the young woman. "Miss Granger," said he, "I apologise for my boorish behaviour. Russell would have beaten me severely; you have been most kind and patient with me. Now, before we face the Professor, tell me: how can we use this Law of Contagion (yes, I do understand it) to deal with the influenza?"

Snape wheeled about: "You have been nattering on behind my back; Miss Granger; apparently you lack the courage to face me. If we can obtain the influenza infection in its early state, that is, before the symptoms appear, we can use magical methods to craft a preventative potion, which will have the properties of' the infection as a splinter from a doorpost 'represents' the dwelling place. Come in, come in, don't stand there with your jaw hanging, Holmes." Snape pushed them into the office, and the door slammed in back of them.

Holmes' brow furrowed. Much as he disliked admitting that he didn't understand Snape, he was at a loss, and of little use to the investigation. Best handle this with some degree of tact; he didn't need Snape exploding yet again. "Professor," he said, in his most urbane and genteel tones, "please forgive an old chap. I've always relied on Watson for his understanding of things medical, and I am, erm, confused. Perhaps you could give an example…"

Snape inhaled loudly, and a "Here I go, explaining things to dunderheads" look appeared on his face. "Concentrate, then," he ordered Holmes. We obtain the blood of the person whom we know is infected but has not yet shown symptoms. We isolate the substance of the infection from the blood, and subject it to magical manipulations. The substance will still be influenza, but it will carry the magical markers we assign to it. When given to a witch or wizard, it will reverse the symptoms, the worst of which is the loss of magical powers."

"Thank you," said Holmes. "I begin to understand. How can we get the infection in its early state, as you say? We only know that someone is infected by the appearance of symptoms. By that time it's too late." He thought. "We need a controlled situation, and I'm not a doctor, I can't see how it could be done." He glared at Snape. "Our one hope was my contacting Watson, and now you've set that all into a pretty mess, haven't you!"

"Just a moment," Hermione interjected. "Muggles have been taking medicines for influenza and diseases like it for many years." She hitched up her robes and seated herself on a chair. "We need a subject who has just become infected."

Holmes stated: "I propose that I become infected. I shall shake hands with Madam Pomfrey, for instance, and since the contagion is fast acting, within, say, an hour I shall have the disease. Before the symptoms manifest, you can draw blood, and begin work on isolating the organisms. I trust that the condition will progress in me as it has in the others."

Snape, whose scanty patience was wearing thin with too much discussion, inadvertently provided the solution. "Damn you, you're a Squib already!" He stopped with his mouth open, in mid-roar. He shut his jaw with a snap and leaned towards Holmes in an almost confidential manner.

Holmes, whose fists were at the ready to make an acquaintance with the Potions Master's jaw, stepped back, his eyes flashing. "What do you mean, a Squib?" he snarled.

Snape snarled back at him. "A Squib is a wizard or witch who has lost his or her magical powers. Filch is a Squib. Now Pomfrey is a Squib, and her nurses, and Albus and Minerva…"

Holmes stepped forward rapidly. "Think, man! Wizards are losing their powers…it's contagious…if it isn't contained there won't be anyone with magical powers left! What does that mean? _Who would benefit if the wizards lost their powers?_

Snape reached out, steadying himself with a hand on Holmes' arm. "Yes – yes, it's obvious, isn't it…all the wizards, _except for a chosen few, _powerless..." He looked down. "That's why I didn't get the disease," he murmured. "I'm a Death Eater…"

Hermione clamped both hands over her mouth, and then dropped them in her lap. "Voldemort! It's Voldemort! He's done this!" She turned to Snape: "Don't you see it? If he renders all the witches and wizards powerless _except_ for the Death Eaters, he'll rule the world! He'll kill the Squibs as well as the Muggles, no-one will be able to stop him!" She clasped her hands around her arms, but she could not stop shuddering.

Holmes put his hand out to her. "Miss Granger," he said, "I believe you're right. It's the only thing that makes any sense. Snape, what do you say, man? We must stop this maniac in his tracks."

"Easier said than done," intoned Snape. He smirked. "Damned clever, sending those two corpses here already infected with the disease. So that is why they didn't test as Muggles, or as wizards. They had become Squibs."

"I told you it wasn't poison!" cried Hermione, her eyes blazing. 'I take that back. It _is_ poison; it's poisoned infection! I know what to do. We can make a vaccine, a weak solution of the infection. The Muggles have been doing it for years."

Snape moved silently to stand next to her. "Come, Miss Granger, to the laboratory. I must look at this thing." He swept out of the office and turned in the direction of the laboratory, his cloak billowing after him. He stopped and turned: "Holmes, I would be eager to know if any more corpses have appeared; perhaps you can find out."

Holmes' mouth turned down at the corners. "I shall make enquiry," he said. "I have some thinking to do." He sighed. "If only I had my pipe…"

Hermione put her hand on his arm. "Please, sir, don't take it personally. Professor Snape is _always_, well, _rather theatrical._ Let him work alone for a bit; it'll be best."

Holmes eyed the young woman, one eyebrow raised. "As you doubtless know, Miss Granger, the Professor prevented me from trying to obtain the medications that helped palliate the influenza symptoms during the epidemic. I deduce that there is something about my milieu that disturbs him, and I have a feeling it has something to do with the mysterious conditions under which I came to Hogwarts."

Hermione bit on her lower lip. "I think you may be right, sir. It's nothing to do with either Doctor Watson or Miss Russell personally, but – but…" She looked away for a moment, and in that instant, her native genius roared to life. "Mr Holmes," she said, taking his arm and walking towards the staircases with him, "Your milieu, as you say, has suffered wave upon wave of influenza epidemics. It's almost uncontrollable, and no-one's been able to prevent it." She drew a deep breath, _here goes nothing…._"I do know someone who may be able to help us. She's a Muggle, and they've been inoculating themselves against influenza, as well as against other diseases, for quite a long time."

Holmes stopped and turned to her. "You tried to say that before, and Snape wouldn't listen. Doesn't he know, as you do, about Muggle medicine? Stubborn ass!"

A dimple appeared in Hermione's cheek. "One of the Professor's less endearing qualities is his bigotry towards Muggles," she stated. "He's a Pureblood, and although he's nowhere near as fanatic as some others of his kind, he knows little about them and doesn't _want_ to know more. I'm a Muggle-born witch, and to me, Muggles – like my _parents_ – are just like anyone else, but they don't practise magic."

"Very astute, Miss Granger. There are people I know who can't ride a bicycle, or are colour blind. They're just like anyone else, aren't they? A Muggle, you say, can't practise magic. But Muggles can and do inoculate themselves against diseases? What about your friend, the Muggle? Please contact her immediately." He started to stride off toward the laboratory. "Well, come along! We must inform the Professor that the game's afoot!"

Hermione fished around in her wardrobe, finally extricating what looked like a small green card with brightly coloured beads and pieces of wire stuck into its surface. She sat down at her desk and propped the card against a mug with the remains of last night's hot cocoa. _Mr Holmes, you would be most interested to see the Law of Contagion in operation…_

_ "Like to like, remember thee,_

_ Of where thou wast, and bring to me_

_Thy parent's likeness, strong in power_

_For all to be my servant this hour."_

Swish, flick, and the green card glowed brilliantly purple, and became a neat laptop computer – her father's computer, actually. He had shown it off proudly on her last visit home: "Your Uncle David gave it me when he got his new desktop system in his office. I've even taken a course in computer repair, and I replaced the bad card by myself!"

"Fascinating!" Hermione patted her father's arm. "May I have the card? It would be interesting to show my chums."

"Of course, my honey," said her doting father. "Mind you, those little wires are sharp; don't cut your fingers, love. Maybe you'll fix it magically, eh?" He hugged her around her neck and gave her cheek a smacking kiss.

Hermione wasn't exactly sure _what_ she'd done to the card, but she knew how a computer worked, and had conjured up the clone of her father's second-hand laptop a few months ago. She had wanted it desperately; her foray into the Russell/Holmes books had whetted her appetite; she was keen to visit the mystery series' website, and the rest, as they say, was history.

_"Enervate!" _she pronounced, and the computer's screen filled with a blue, cloud-filled sky. A hum began as the fan whirred on; a loud chord of music announced the opening of Windows, and Hermione clicked her mouse's pointer on a little picture of a girl with auburn hair. _Oh, Maura, be there,_ she pleaded.

"WHAT?" Maura shouted. "Oh, God, I hate shots! I've never gotten a flu shot before! My cousin Phyllis got one and she came down with the flu itself!"

Hermione was chewing on her lower lip, twisting the edge of her sleeve nervously in her hands. "Maura, you have no idea how terrible this is! I thought all we had to do was solve a murder. It's far beyond that."

"If I had written it myself," answered Maura, "I couldn't have written it any worse. So the Dark Lord plans to take over the Wizarding World? That would mean the end of Hogwarts."

"Not just Hogwarts, but every witch and wizard in the world who isn't Voldemort's lackey," said Hermione. "The last time this happened – oh, you've heard of the Dark Ages, haven't you?"

Maura nodded. She sat with her chin on her fists, gazing at Hermione's face in the monitor. "I can't believe we can pull this off." She found a piece of gum on her desk, put it in her mouth and chewed reflectively. "What about you – I hope _you_ don't get it!

"Maura, I want you to write the 'flu vaccine into Hogwarts, as you wrote Holmes here. Find a way to get it to Snape, perhaps as a phial that unaccountably appears in his laboratory." Hermione's brows drew together. "I'm _not _going to get it."

Maura rubbed her hands together and flexed her fingers. "I can do that. But I'll have to clear the screen…"

"Not necessary, just get your story up," suggested Hermione. A few clicks of Maura's mouse, and the screen filled with a document. Its title was, as might be predicted, "All Will Be Revealed." Maura pressed the Control and End keys, and the end of the document appeared:

_Sherlock Holmes had seen the amazing structure directly he exited from the most unpleasant forest he had ever traversed. "I know of no castle in the vicinity," thought he, and pulled out his pocket Baedeker of Scotland to confirm it._

Nevertheless, there it stood, surrounded by well-kept orchards, fields of grain and magnificent gardens and flowering trees. How could he never have seen it before? Ayrshire was a favourite vacation spot, and surely such a castle, situated on a lovely lake (which was likewise unknown to Baedeker), would be a popular attraction. He walked down the finely gravelled path towards the huge double doors, which opened to show a welcoming committee. Holmes stopped in astonishment…

A small window opened on the upper left of the screen. "Brilliant!" exclaimed Hermione. "I can watch what you're doing!" On Hermione's computer, the document occupied the right half of the screen, with Maura's image on the left.

"Here we go, " said Maura. She put her pencil behind her ear, swept her hair out of her eyes, and typed three asterisks, then hit "Enter" twice, to start a new paragraph.

Maura put her head down on her crossed arms. Her eyes burned. On the screen, in her little box, Hermione's frown threatened to take over her whole face. "I can't understand it! As soon as you hit the Enter key, everything you've typed disappears!"

"And if I don't hit the Enter – if I try to make everything one huge paragraph – it falls apart just as quickly!" She sat up and rubbed her eyes. "Hermione, something doesn't want me to write that vaccine to Hogwarts."

"Rubbish! Oh, I'm sorry, Maura. I didn't mean that what you were saying is rubbish, I just can't imagine why you _shouldn't _be able to write it. After all, you did write Snape's set-to with Holmes, didn't you?"

"I've already tried to write this stuff at the end of that file. Nothing doing; it's the same." Maura blew a large pink bubble, which burst and plastered itself on her nose. Picking away gum fragments disgustedly, Maura said, "Well, if I was writing the _reason_ why I can't write the vaccine to you, I'd say that crossing interdimensional space and time was harmful to the delicate substance."

**_Crossing interdimensional space and time is harmful to the delicate substance._******

Maura looked at Hermione: "Did you just write that?"

"No! I was going to ask you the same thing!" Hermione tried unsuccessfully to push her cloud of frizzy brown hair back behind her ears. "If it won't survive the crossing, then we have to make it here," she stated.

"Maybe that's why I can't _write_ it there. There are different strains of 'flu, and how would I know which was the right one? You've got a number of infected people," said Maura. "Between you and Snape, I'd say you could get blood samples and isolate the organism. Then you can make a vaccine and also something to reverse the no-magic situation."

"Okay," Hermione replied. "We've got to give it a try. I have a feeling the Professor will be less than thrilled, but I'll make him see the logic of it."

"What about Holmes? While you're doing that, he's going to be snooping into everything and anything, trying to find out how Voldemort managed to get those infected Squibs into Hogwarts without compromising _them_ in interdimensional space and time."

Hermione giggled. "Yes, I believe that's just what he'll do. It'll be a challenge to keep him out of Hogsmeade and away from telephones and telegraphs." She looked down, then up again. "It would serve him right if we brought Russell here."


	11. Chapter 11 Am I Poison

**_Chapter 11: Am I Poison?_**

Hermione sat as still as a statue, her jaw clenched. Only her eyes moved, flashing glances of fire at him and then quickly looking away.

_Oh, she's furious,_ thought Snape. _Although why that should bother me, I can't imagine. I myself tend to be furious_ most_ of the time, as she never fails to remind me._

_It's jealous I am,_ he thought sourly. _I see the comfortable familiarity she has with the wanker-who-lived and his moronic Housemate; indeed, with the entire clutch of rotten Gryffindor eggs. I see the ease with which she puts her hand on Holmes' arm. Am I poison?_

_Oh, don't think it's lost on me, the outrageous way Holmes flirts with anything in a skirt. I've watched him; the ingratiating smile, the twinkling eyes, the intimate word in an ear, the courtly hand under the arm or around the waist. Bounder. She's besotted with him, lost her good sense. Hideous cad: he's old enough to be her grandsire! Shouldn't be surprised if that doesn't stop the rogue from attempting to-- _he could not go on; it was too awful.

He had merely remarked to her that Holmes seemed to be taking up a good amount of her time, time better spent in working with him, Snape, to create the antidote to the magic-destroying influenza. He had been unable to resist throwing in a jibe about Holmes' propensity for telling humorous stories at dinner, and her obvious enjoyment of his storytelling. How had he worded it: "Inane sniggering?"

Miss Granger had rounded upon him. "Enjoy it?" she cried. "Shall I tell you what I enjoy most? Mr Holmes _looks at me _when he speaks to me, unlike _you_, sir, who can hardly be bothered to acknowledge my existence when I am not performing some menial task or other for you!"__

_Indeed,_ said his resident conscience, which almost never spoke up when he wanted it to, and insisted on droning in his ear when it was most unwelcome. _You have worked diligently to prove to one and all, including Miss Granger, that you _are _poison. You wish to emulate the dread Svengali, and have your brilliant acolyte all to yourself? If you are truly jealous of her friends and of others_ who make her smile, _which you have steadfastly refused to do,_ _y_o_u might prove to Miss Granger that you are flesh and blood, that there is more to you than billowing black robes, bile and vitriol. Touch her._

He scoffed to himself. Had he not touched her many times? He had mopped up wounds she took when a cauldron exploded or some caustic substance burned her. He had kneaded her stiff shoulder muscles when she stirred cauldrons for hours; many times he had bundled her up in her cloak and carried her up to Gryffindor tower, depositing her on her bed to the shocked or amused glances of her dormitory mates, when she had worked or studied herself into exhaustion.

He had risked having his shins soundly kicked recently when Miss Granger, distracted, forgot to eat although there was a luncheon tray between them on the laboratory bench, and she caught him looking at her levelly, carefully and deliberately loading his fork and then leaning towards her, intent on _feeding her! _Then, he remembered, chuckling, she had Transfigured the food on the fork into squirming maggots, struck his hand so that the writhing mess flew into his face, and hissed profanity that would have made a Slytherin proud.

Truth to tell, she had done as much for him, and often. She had worked out the stiffness in his back after long hours in the laboratory, sat by his bed in the Hospital wing when he recuperated from the Dark Lord's tortures. She had brought him food and drink and insisted he eat, nagging him until he would have done anything to be rid of her..

Still, there she sat, enraged at him and probably at herself. She had shown him a side of her that he had never seen, or never allowed himself to notice: she had let him see her vulnerability. Granted, she had couched her revelation in terms that anyone who did not know her as he did would have interpreted as merely a snotty rebuttal to his attack. He rose; his mind made up, and walked over to the settee. He sat down next to her, close but not touching, and waited patiently.

After a few moments, Hermione acknowledged his presence with a slight sniff. She turned slightly towards him, although her eyes remained fixed on the other side of the room. "Hermione," he said, and she stiffened, unused to his calling her by her given name.

"What is it?"

He held out his hand, and she looked down at it as if it were a toad. Finally, she looked into his face. He sat still, his hand out, and slowly, she raised her hand and put it in his, where it lay like a small white bird in his broad palm. His eyes held hers as he slowly lifted her hand and touched his lips gently to her fingers. Who would have known that his lips would be soft, so soft, and warm? She closed her fingers around his hand. Her heart thudded in her chest._ He is looking directly at me…_

_So,_ he thought, _I have surprised you, and you didn't smack my hand out of the way, or claw me, or recoil with disgust._ Liking the sound of his interior dialogue, he pronounced it aloud: "You didn't recoil with disgust."

Her chocolate brown eyes were enormous and too bright, bright with a gloss of tears. "I didn't know…" she whispered, then collected herself. "I didn't know your lips would feel like that."

"As I have never kissed myself, I wouldn't know what you mean by 'that,' Miss Granger, but I did strive to please." A corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile.

She bowed her head to hide her answering smile, and her cheeks flushed hot. She looked down at her hand in his, and then up again. She moved closer to him and put her other hand on his shoulder. Then, she straightened and returned both hands to her lap.

"I apologise, Professor," she said. "It was inappropriate of me to overstep my bounds."

"Not so, all is well," he answered quietly. "We are both over-tired with this case, and strained to the breaking point. I value you greatly, Miss Granger, although it is not in character for me to express it." He rose from the settee. "It grows late. I am, as ever, your obedient servant, Severus Snape." He smirked.

Hermione snorted. "Are you indeed, sir? There is a Muggle child's story, in which a wooden puppet wishes to become a real boy, but he is a great liar, and every time he tells a lie, his nose grows. I shall watch your nose closely, Professor. 'Obedient?' Never! 'Servant?' That is a snide remark, sir. Good night." She rose and took her book knapsack from the table.

Snape slouched back down in his chair, steepled his fingers and sneered at her over them. "It's clear you've been hanging about with Holmes a bit much, Miss Granger; you're even beginning to sound like him. Next thing we'll be treated to is your everlasting blather in a revolting Oxford accent. We have a busy day ahead of us, get some sleep."

_Nothing has changed_. Hermione put her nose in the air and swept out the door, which slammed shut behind her, and Severus Snape put his face in his hands. _He had kissed her hand and she had almost…_it would have to do.

Sherlock Holmes sat in his window seat and regarded the moonlight on the lake. He could make out the two black swans; they were always there, two small dark ships on their nightly patrol. He thought of Russell, infected with influenza, lying in a bed in hospital. He visualized her burning with fever; her long, thick blonde hair sodden with sweat, and shuddered with dread.

He remembered one night that Spring. He and Russell were returning from their trip to Palestine, returning to danger and violence. For the sake of the case, they had decided to give the impression that they had become bitter enemies. The strain had been enormous, and on that night in question, he had wordlessly held out his arms to her, and she had come into them, lacing her arms around him, and put her head on his shoulder. He had held her until her trembling quieted, and she had looked up at him, her great sapphire eyes bright with tears and something he was not sure he understood. He had brushed his lips across her forehead, his arms tightened about her, and his soul gave a great lurch. _I love her._ If she were to fall sick….his chest tightened and he dropped his face into his hands. Russell…_his Russell…_


	12. Chapter 12 For Hogwarts and England

**_Chapter 12:  For Hogwarts and England_**

****

_A/N:  Thanks and praise to OzRatBag2, beta extraordinary, who lent her medical expertise and keen eye to this chapter.  Thanks also, as always, to excessivelyperky, who has consistently kept me from anachronisms, oddities and non sequiturs in this tale.  Blessed be!  Dame Niamh_

Snape looked at the long, narrow case in Holmes' hands with distaste.  "You intend to obtain blood samples – with _that?"  _Madam Pomfrey looked even more discomfited. "I don't know if I want you to stick me with _that thing,_ Mr Holmes," she said, shrinking visibly away from the detective.  She sat on a straight-backed chair next to a table draped with clean linen cloths, an improvised medical procedures station.

Holmes made haste to reassure her:  "Madam, I will tell you from personal experience, it hurts less to have blood drawn from your arm than from your finger.  It is the only way to obtain clean blood samples, in the hopes that we can isolate the influenza infection from those who have already had it."

The mediwitch was recovering well.  She still sniffled a bit, but the aches and pains were gone; the fever had receded.  She had not returned to full duty, though; her magic had not come back.  Ever concerned about her patients, she was using any means possible to make them more comfortable.  Old folk remedies, herbal tisanes, hot and cold compresses, unguents and salves made from garden herbs, bark and leaves still worked, although they could not re-grow bones and close wounds.

Madam Pomfrey's aides, Agrippina and Brigit, were Druids, who were able to command the elements to some degree.  Their prayers and incantations could not undo this virulent disease, or return the practise of magic to those affected, but they could help the patients get a good night's sleep, and calm fevers and upset stomachs.  They worked diligently, carrying out Madam Pomfrey's orders, caring for the sick.  Even so, as soon as she was able to stand without fainting, Poppy Pomfrey resumed her management of the Infirmary.

Holmes had boiled his hypodermic syringe in hot water for fifteen minutes, to ensure that it was fit for use.  As he fitted the needle to the barrel, he reflected that the last time he had used this particular device, he had been sweating and shaky, desperate for morphine. That addiction had been vanquished, not least by the presence of Mary Russell in his life; she was a far subtler dependency.

Snape brought over a bottle of Old Ogden's Firewhiskey.  Its high alcohol content made it a passable antiseptic.  Madam Pomfrey looked at the Potions Master as if he had lost his mind.  "If you think, Severus Snape, that you are going to get me drunk so you can experiment on me, I beg you to think again."

The woman was quaking with terror, Snape noticed.  He took a square of gauze from a tray and wetted it with the whiskey.  "Now, Poppy, you must be brave.  This will take only a moment, and if it will help, you may have some whiskey to drink afterwards.  Please hold out your arm."

"Look," said Holmes.  "You can barely see the vein; that is the one we will use.  We must bring it up a bit.  Madam Pomfrey, this may be uncomfortable, but it is only for a moment."   He fished in the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a length of slender rubber tubing.  Poppy Pomfrey's eyes bulged and perspiration stood out on her forehead, but she braced her left arm with her right hand, took a breath and shut her eyes.  "For Hogwarts and England," she said.

Snape wiped Poppy's arm with the whiskey.  He looked at Holmes and nodded; the detective had explained the procedure to him, and although he did not think he could execute it, he was most curious.

Quickly and smoothly, Holmes tied the rubber tubing around the mediwitch's upper arm, pulling it tight.  The vein bulged obligingly.  Holmes patted it with his finger, then inserted the tip of the hypodermic's needle into the blood vessel and eased back the plunger.  In a moment, the weight of the syringe rose almost imperceptibly, indicating that it was filling with blood.  Taking the whiskeyed gauze from Snape, Holmes pressed it to Poppy's arm and withdrew the needle, then whisked off the tubing.  "You may open your eyes now, Madam Pomfrey.  We're finished."

Poppy opened one eye, then the other, and said,  "I barely felt the tiniest prick."  She waved away Snape's proffered glass of whiskey.  "I don't need that," she said.  Sister Agrippina bustled over with a sticking plaster, which she applied to the mediwitch's arm.

****

Hermione Granger stretched, with her hands at the small of her back.  She was exhausted.  She and Snape had worked without ceasing for two days, trying to isolate the antibodies in the blood samples they had taken.  Hermione's magic had made it possible for them to see the blood corpuscles and actually see the influenza in them, but she had not been able to alter them.  Severus Snape had compounded potion after potion keyed to the chemical properties of the influenza, but had only succeeded in eradicating it in the blood samples.  If there were antibodies, they were too feeble to be operated upon by magic.

Holmes, too, was at the end of his endurance.  After decanting each blood sample into a clean phial, he had had to disassemble his apparatus, sterilise it and then proceed to the next patient.  Some students had already fallen ill; they had had contact either with Madam Pomfrey, the Headmaster, Professor McGonagall or even Filch, who, as a Squib, was certainly a carrier.  Hermione herself spent every moment not in classes or in Snape's laboratory in her room, reading her Muggle books on haematology and infectious diseases.

Snape, looking pale and gaunt, was delicately dropping a reagent into a small phial filled with blood.  As usual, he scorned to eat or sleep whilst engaged in his work, and he looked more like a scrawny bat than ever. His temper, never mild, was increasingly short and explosive.  Their set-to earlier that day, during which Snape inadvertently revealed his jealousy of the Great Detective, had been as short-lived and as virulent as the Potions Master's temper.

"You must rest for a while," Hermione said to him.  "I'm going to send a House-Elf for luncheon.  Will you sit down and eat it?" He turned round and fixed her with a poisonous glare.  "Do not presume to tell me what I _must_ do, Miss Granger.  If you do not have the endurance to continue, please tell me immediately.  I can survive without your endless nagging."

Hermione seethed.  She opened her mouth to fling a sharp retort in his face, but nothing came out.  Her throat closed, and she choked.  Trying not to panic, she drew in air through her nose, but her windpipe spasmed again, and she gagged.  _I'm strangling,_ she thought.  Her face felt as if it were on fire; her vision dimmed, and she clutched at her throat.  She caught a glimpse of Snape looming over her as she fought for air.  Dimly she heard Snape roaring a spell, his long hands flailing over her head.  She gasped and drew breath, and Snape caught her as she staggered against him.

Unable to speak, she pointed to her throat.  Snape seized her face, pulling her jaw down, and squinted down her throat.  Muttering, he turned round, holding on to her shoulder with one hand.  With the other, he plucked a phial off a nearby shelf and twisted off the cap with his teeth.  "Drink this!" he gritted, and poured the liquid into her mouth.  It burned terribly, and her eyes watered, but she got it down.  Snape watched her from narrowed eyes.  He pushed her into a chair, knelt before her.  His long hands searched for her pulse, felt her forehead and the back of her neck.  Then he stood.

"Your eyes are glazed, Granger, and you have a fever.  I fear that you are infected with the influenza."  He seized her wrist and pulled her to her feet.  Hermione stumbled against him, and he put his long arm around her.  In a moment, they were through the Floo network and in the Infirmary.

Holmes, drawing blood from his last donor, saw them half-fall out of the hospital fireplace, and ran to them straightaway.  "Not you!  Merciful Heaven, Miss Granger, not you!" She could barely stand, and here was Snape towing her about by her arm!  Holmes' lips were compressed automatically in a scowl.  He strode to Miss Granger's side, swept her up in his arms and carried her over to a vacant bed.  Sister Agrippina drew a curtain around the bed and began to remove the girl's school uniform, shooing the men away.

"Not the best bedside manner, eh, Snape?"  Holmes put a sticking plaster on Seamus Finnegan's arm, the boy stood up shakily.  "Thank you, Seamus. Have some pumpkin juice and chocolate," said Holmes, indicating a table that had been set up with refreshments for the blood donors. 

Snape looked down, a muscle in his jaw twitching.  He did not look up, not even to reply to Holmes' gibe.  It was true; he had no bedside manner, nor much of any manners, for that matter.  In truth, he was terrified.  _Miss Granger, sick…_she had almost perished in the laboratory.  If he had not had the presence of mind to find exactly the right potion at the first try, she would have choked to death.  Fortunately, it was a Laxus potion, specific to whatever muscle or tissue was in spasm.  Finally, he addressed himself to Holmes.

"Without her help, I shall be hard pressed," he said.  "There is no-one remotely near her capability upon whom I can call." 

Holmes finished decanting Seamus' blood sample into a phial, which he corked carefully.  His brow rose; Snape, admitting weakness?  "I shall help you," he pronounced, "with whatever skills I possess.  Granted, I am not Miss Granger, and I have no magic, but Snape, I shall work with you.  If," he added, "you will allow it."

Snape breathed loudly through his nose.  "There is nothing for it, I must allow it," he stated.  "In the meantime, it is important that Miss Granger's Muggle friend be located immediately."  He broke off, hearing a commotion at the door, and turned to see Draco Malfoy and his two flunkies, Crabbe and Goyle, supporting one another, staggering into the hospital.  The Malfoy boy was green about the gills and gasping like a flounder; his thickheaded bodyguards were both sneezing uncontrollably.

Poppy Pomfrey motioned over Sister Agrippina.  Her eyes sparkled.  "I've been _waiting_ for this lot to pay us a visit!  Right this way, boys," she called. Agrippina smirked, and said under her breath,  "I'll bet ye're keen to give these lads a good workin' over."

****

Holmes tapped his saucer, and his cup re-filled with steaming tea.  The excellent cuisine, he considered, certainly helped him to keep up his strength.  He glanced over at Snape, who was actually _eating_, although with mechanical efficiency and a lamentable lack of enjoyment.  Holmes helped himself to a piece of Dundee fruitcake.  Albus Dumbledore, recovered enough to come to dinner, leaned over to him:  "I've received an owl from Durmstrang.  Two mysterious corpses have appeared, and wizards are beginning to show signs of influenza," he said.  "I've told them that we'll share whatever information we can." 

Snape put down his fork and knife.  "The state of our medical arts has not progressed sufficiently to develop a vaccine.  Miss Granger was about to contact a Muggle friend who had agreed to get the influenza vaccine so that the vaccine may be prepared from her altered antibodies, but she has fallen ill.  Granger, I mean."  He wiped his face with his napkin; Holmes had never seen a more woeful countenance. 

Dumbledore smiled at the younger Wizard.  "Yes, she's told me about her friend.  I believe I can help." He turned to Holmes: "I'm glad you and Severus are working well together.  Were it not for your combined knowledge, we would not be even this far."

Snape grimaced. In his heart – well, he now knew he had a heart.  It was trembling with worry for his Granger.  _His_ Granger…

****

"You can purchase a plane ticket to Edinburgh.  We'll get you back to Hogwarts right from the airport," stated the Headmaster.

"Yes," answered Maura.  She still couldn't believe it:  instead of Hermione Granger, she was conversing with _Headmaster Dumbledore!  _He had assured her that Hermione was being cared for, and would soon be well, but there was no time to waste.

"There are direct Toronto-London flights, but nothing direct to Edinburgh," Maura said. "I'll have to change planes in London."

"Our Runes Mistress is a Druid, and they operate outside the laws of Wizarding World magic.  They're also completely trustworthy. "You'll be safest if we have a car for you at Edinburgh, with some of her people," stated Dumbledore.

"Druids?  Don't they parade around in long robes and hang out near stoneworks and pyramids, and hold Solstice ceremonies?" Maura asked dubiously.

The old Wizard chuckled.  "Well, they do all that, but most of them hold regular jobs and wear ordinary Muggle clothing most of the time.  Dame Angharad wears long robes, but she's the High Priestess.  Her Earth magic allows her to transcend the laws that separate our universe from your real time.  The Druids she'll send with the car will be the most powerful priests she knows, who will get the car and its precious passenger – you- through the wards and safely into Hogwarts. It's going to be an ordinary car, nothing to draw attention to it."

Maura rolled up her sleeve and looked at her left arm, near the shoulder:  there was a nasty red lump where she had gotten her inoculation.  It felt hot to her touch, but so far, so good; she didn't feel sick.  "The flu shot wasn't as bad as I thought," she said.  "I just hope I don't get sick with it."

"I trust not," replied Dumbledore.  "You'd better make your flight reservations right now."

Maura pressed the Speaker button on her phone and dialled Air Canada.  A pleasant-voiced woman answered her call.  In a few moments she had given the woman her credit-card number and received confirmation for a round trip flight to London for the following day, departing Toronto at 7 o'clock in the morning. She would land at Heathrow six and a half hours later and change immediately for a flight to Edinburgh.  Surprisingly, the price was quite reasonable.

"Excellent!" exclaimed the Headmaster.  "When you get off the plane, go to the luggage claim, where the car drivers congregate, and look for the driver with your name on a sign.  We will all be waiting to welcome you."

"What can I bring you from home?" asked Maura, thinking of maple sugar candy. 

Albus Dumbledore thought.  "How about a Maple Leafs T-shirt, extra large?" he asked.

****

The road was smooth and wound gently through the rolling Scottish hills, alongside a loch here, through a little forest there, past small cities and villages.  Flocks of sheep drifted across the road now and then; they crawled along past the shepherds with their black and white dogs. _Nothing to see in Scotland, indeed. _ It was gorgeous country.  The two quiet, taciturn men in the front seat had barely said anything to her since she had spied them holding a sign with her name on it when she came through the airport.  The journey had continued with no problems, no incidents, and after a time, Maura dozed off, dreaming of sheep, hospitals and Sherlock Holmes.

She woke when the two men began to converse between themselves.  She couldn't understand a word they said; probably Gaelic, and regrettably she had none of it.  They drove between closely trimmed hedgerows.  They came round a corner, and there, in front of them, was Hogwarts Lake, and atop a cliff on the other side, beautiful Hogwarts.  The car stopped, and Maura got out.  For some time she stood and gazed at the incredible sight.  It was getting towards evening, and lights glimmered in the castle's towers and shone through tall pointed windows.  Banners snapped from the tower tops; two black swans swam slowly across the lake.

The driver approached her.  "T'boat'll be comin' for you, so I'll say goodbye fer now. "Blessed be, Miss Maura," he said." 

The other man took Maura's hand and kissed it.  "Welcome, Miss Maura," he said.  "We'll meet again.  Blessed be."  He led her towards the lake's edge, where a small boat waited, and helped her to clamber in and sit down.  They put her Rollaboard into the boat.

Slowly, the boat began to move across the glass-smooth lake. Maura looked over her shoulder; men and car were gone.  The black swans swam alongside the boat as it made its way towards the castle.  The half-moon had risen, with a star hanging from its tip, like an earring.  _How beautiful it is…I couldn't have imagined it half as lovely._  The boat moved into a leafy channel that opened up in the side of the great cliff on which the castle stood, and after a few moments, it landed on a small shingle beach.  A torch flared.

"Welcome!" The huge voice set Maura's ears ringing.  She looked around, and then up, up, into a pair of bright beetle-black eyes in a round bearded face.

"Hagrid?"

The half giant put out a hand the size of a ham and practically lifted her out of the boat.  Then he took out her Rollaboard.  "Foller me, Miss Maura," he bellowed.  "Yer just in time fer dinner! I hope ye're hungry."

Maura sat on her four-poster bed, swinging her feet. She still couldn't believe it!  Crookshanks jumped into her lap, kneaded her thighs briefly, and curled himself into a ginger ball, purring loudly.  Dinner had been, well, a feast; her stomach was full, and she was sleepy.  She had visited Hermione in the Infirmary; her friend was drowsy and feverish.  Maura was still trembling:  looming over Hermione's bed, she had seen the tall, thin, black-clad figure of Severus Snape.  He had straightened up and looked at her with an expression that would stop a clock.

Crookshanks jumped off Maura's lap and padded over to curl up on a pillow.  Maura tucked her legs under the thick red comforter.  Somewhere, an owl hooted softly. Tomorrow she would meet Sherlock Holmes…  Someone outside her door whispered "Nox," and her candles went out.


	13. Chapter 13 The Carrier

Chapter 13     The Carrier

_A/N:  Thanks and praise to OzRatBag2 for checking this chapter for things medical (and if you think I'm mean to Draco, you can only_ imagine _what she would have done to him!) and, as always, to excessivelyperky, beta extraordinary, for her logical and devilishly inventive mind!  Blessed be! DN_

Maura woke to the tune of the chorus of morning birds outside her window.  For a moment she was disoriented by the bed-curtains around her, then she remembered:  _she was at Hogwarts!_.  There was a rattle of curtain-rings as the bed-curtains were drawn aside, and a turnip-shaped head appeared directly in front of her face. "You is to get up, Miss Maura," the elf said in his (her?) squeaky little voice.  She sat up and took her dressing gown from its gnarled fingers.  _House-elves!  _

"Thank you," she said.  "What's your name?"  She put on her slippers and stood up.

"I is Whinny," the little creature answered. "Whinny help you to get dressed, Miss Maura," and the elf toddled over to the large armoire.  It returned with its arms full of clothing, although she hadn't seen it open any drawers or reach in for anything.  Maura knelt down for a good look:  just as she had expected, wrinkled yellowish skin, huge blue eyes, and floppy ears, and wearing a tunic made of tea towels.  "I is a girl, Miss Maura," the elf said.  "I knows about clothing and hairdressing and makeup." She put the clothing on the bed, smoothing out Maura's skirt carefully.

Maura restrained an impulse to hug the little thing.  _They probably don't appreciate being called 'cute,' she thought._  "Thank you, Whinny. "

Whinny held open the door to her bathroom.  "You calls if you needs anything, Miss Maura," the elf said.  Fifteen minutes later, Maura came out and began to dress, Whinny holding up each garment for her. 

"I'm starving, Whinny," Maura said. "Will you take me down to breakfast?"  She'd never negotiate those moving staircases by herself.

"Miss has to go to Infirmary first," answered the elf.  "Then you has a good big breakfast."  She held up Maura's blazer.  "Come now, Miss Maura, Master Holmes and Master Snape is waiting."  She took Maura by the edge of her jacket and toddled along importantly, as she made her way to the Infirmary. 

_I'm going to meet Sherlock Holmes_.  Imagine! Laurie R. King had given her readers many examples of Holmes' social skills, especially his suavity with the ladies. Of course, she was _also _going to meet Potions Master Snape, the infamous greasy git. She had only gotten a glimpse of him the night before, and that sour glare. Her heart hammered with excitement.

The Infirmary in daylight was exactly as she had imagined it:  wide glass-paned doors opened onto a large, sunny room with curtained hospital beds along the walls, what appeared to be an office on one side, shelves and cabinets, and in the middle, a large table draped with white linens, with a chair next to it.  A tall, thin man stood in front of the table, with his back to her.  A red-haired woman in an old-fashioned nursing sister's outfit stood next to him.

The man turned around, held out his hands and favoured her with a devastating smile.  Maura's heart jumped in her chest; her knees went wobbly.  _Wow.  He is just charming__._  Of course, she hadn't quite written him that way – she hadn't known he would be reassuring, confident and _oh, my goodness, he's _hot!  Hot!

"Miss McNicholas!" the Great Detective exclaimed.  He took her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles  '_I may swoon'_, put his arm around her shoulders and conducted her to the chair. '_Oh yes, I _will _swoon'_.  A hand on her shoulder made her turn around; it was the redhead.  She helped Maura to take off her blazer, which she hung on the back of the chair.

"Good mornin', Miss," the woman said.  "I'm goin' to check your heart, your temperature and your pulse." She put her hand on Maura's forehead, nodded and said, "All's well, sir. Pulse a little quick- " she winked at Maura – "but ye can understand why!"  She patted Maura's shoulder again.  Sherlock Holmes took her hand and his long, slender fingers pressed the inside of her wrist.  Her heart thudded in her chest.  _He's hypnotic and it's all too incredible!  _Holmes looked up at her, then turned around:  "Bring some cold compresses, Sister Brigit," he ordered.  "Miss Maura's pulse is too rapid, she must relax."

The nurse returned with a compress that smelt of lavender.  She put it on the back of Maura's neck, leaned over and whispered, "He's a _lovely _man, in't he? Now, ye just sit and rest a bit."    Holmes was fiddling with something on the table, and Sister Brigit went over to assist him.   Maura looked around her:  most of the beds had their curtains drawn back, and she could see patients in them.  Some were sitting up, some were sleeping and a few were coughing or sneezing.  She could see Hermione's mop of thick hair on her pillow; poor thing was still out of it.  She turned around a bit to see who was causing a fuss on the other side of the large room.

_My God.  It's Draco Malfoy, or is it Lucius?  _A gorgeous blond guy was sitting up in one of the beds, yelling at the top of his lungs.  _Has to be Draco; he's the same age as Harry, Ron and Hermione._  She listened; he was furious.  Standing next to his bed, well, it had to be Madam Pomfrey.  She held a large flask, and she was definitely not amused.

"I'm not drinking that shite!" he screamed.  "_Look_ at it, it's disgusting!  You've put, what, Flobberworms in it?  Ewwwww!  They're _moving!"  _He pulled the sheet up around himself.  "Uncle Severus!  Where in the nine Hells is he?  He'll hex you into a snail, Pomfrey, you just wait!"

Madam Pomfrey's lips compressed into a thin line.  "Language, Draco.  You've been infected with influenza, and you _must _take this medicine.  Magic isn't working, or hadn't you noticed?  Your Uncle Severus brewed this potion _especially for you_, and you do want to get well, don't you?"

The blond snarled menacingly.  Maura could see his hands shaking even from across the room.  He was _scared!_  She stifled a giggle.  Lo, how the mighty…and he called Snape "Uncle Severus?"  Well, she had read several fics in which Snape was Draco's godfather.

"You don't fool me, Pomfrey," Draco shouted.  "You gave Crabbe and Goyle some other stuff, they said it wasn't nasty – and you expect ME to drink THAT?  You had it made on purpose just to torture me!  Wait till my father hears about this, you'll be carrying bedpans in Azkaban!" 

Maura felt Sister Brigit put a new compress on her neck; this one smelt sweetly of rosemary.  She turned around.  There, in front of her face, was a row of small black buttons up the front of a black frock coat.  She followed the buttons upward to a glimpse of a white collar and then to the shaggy black hair and sallow, dour face of Severus Snape, Potions Master of Hogwarts.  She caught her breath:  _I did a good job, didn't I; he's the dark side of Sherlock Holmes._  "Professor Snape," she said courteously, extending her hand.

The Potions Master bowed stiffly, ignoring her hand.  "We are ready," he said.  _Oh, that voice:  that gorgeous voice._  Sherlock Holmes approached her.  He took her hand and gently put her left arm on the table, on top of a folded linen cloth.  Carefully, and with a light and delicate touch, his elegant fingers undid her cuff button and rolled her shirt sleeve up above her elbow.  She looked over at the tabletop; there was an old-fashioned metal hypodermic syringe, an array of flasks, a pile of small flannels and other things she didn't want to look at too closely. 

"This will only take a moment, Miss McNicholas," said Holmes.  He crouched down, directly in front of her, and took her right hand in his.  "You will save many people with your generous participation," he said.  "We could not fight this dreadful epidemic without you."  He pressed her hand and smiled at her.  "Master Snape, let us proceed."

Snape brought over a bottle of – yes; it was Old Ogden's Firewhiskey, eliciting a bellow from across the room.  "Fuck!  You're giving other patients _whiskey_, and you expect me to swallow that nauseating mess?  Who's that?  Who's that Mudblood bint over there?  You're giving _her_ whiskey!  Uncle Severus!"

The Potions Master looked across the room.  "Excuse me for a moment," he said to Holmes and Maura. 

The Great Detective smirked.  "This should prove interesting," he said.

Severus Snape approached his godson's bedside.  "What's the matter, Draco?"  He looked at Madam Pomfrey with a meaningful glance.  "Won't take his potion?"

The mediwitch looked up at him. "No, Professor, he's refused to take this special medicine you made _just for him.  _I'm concerned that his condition will worsen if he doesn't have it straightaway."

Snape considered for a moment.  He loomed over Draco.  "I expect you to not be a snivelling infant," he said.  "Take your medicine."  He turned to Poppy Pomfrey:  "If he continues to refuse it, get it into him by whatever means you deem necessary."  He turned on his heel and strode away, his cloak billowing behind him.

Draco's eyes were huge, and he had begun to sweat with abject terror. Madam Pomfrey approached his bed with a long rubber tube coiled in her hand and a knowing smile on her face.  "By whatever means, Draco," she said.  "Now, let's see, it could be administered nasally, and if that doesn't do…" The boy's eyes rolled up in his head.


	14. Chapter 14 Remembrance of Honey Wine

**_Chapter 14  Remembrance of Honey Wine_**

"Have you heard anything at all?  It's been a week since he was supposed to return."  Mary Russell clutched the telephone receiver in an unaccustomedly sweaty hand.  _Not again…_ Holmes had disappeared off the face of the earth, or so it would seem.  _Damned inconsiderate sod_, she thought, as she listened to John Watson wittering on about Holmes' penchant for impromptu side-trips and unexpected departures to points unknown, oblivious that anyone should worry about him.

"I know, Uncle John, but he was going to Edinburgh for three days to present a monograph at a conference, not to investigate a case!"

"What does Mycroft say?  Has he heard aught of him?"  She could tell that John Watson was disturbed; his voice trembled slightly.

"Mycroft's not heard a word from him, but he did say that Holmes had mentioned walking in Ayrshire for a bit after the conference. You know Holmes; he's always prepared for a tramp through woods or over moors.  I asked Mrs Hudson if he had taken anything unusual along; she said he'd taken his Wellington boots and that awful old cranach of his, so she tucked some extra biscuits and a tin of kippers into his kit."

Mary leaned against the wall, suddenly tired of talking.  "Uncle John, I'm going to ring off, I'm terribly weary.  If you hear from Holmes, please let me know."

"I shall, my dear.  Now Mary, get some rest.  Good-bye, Mary dear, and don't fret.  You know how Holmes is; he'll appear when you least expect him."

Mary bade him good-bye and hung up the receiver.  _Not much comfort there; he's as concerned as I am_, she thought.  She had a vague sense of foreboding, an unexplainable feeling of disquietude.  The beauty of late spring did little to distract her.  Term was just about over, and she looked forward to returning to Sussex, but without Holmes… She tramped upstairs to her rooms and flung herself down across the bed.  _Oh, very well, Russell, you might as well admit it.  You miss him terribly._  She had tried time and again to analyse exactly what it was she missed when Holmes was away.  There was the to and fro of spirited discourse, with a racketing good argument thrown in periodically, to be sure.  There was the ease of being herself, totally herself, with her acerbic tongue, rough edges, and encyclopaedic knowledge.  There was the astonishing feeling of losing her self-awareness, _sinking, _as it were, into Holmes' presence as she opened her mind without reservation and drank thirstily from the spring of his intellect.

And then, and then….she rolled over, wrapping her arms around a large pillow, holding to it tightly, and (fighting herself every inch of the way) admitting that she wished it were Holmes, that she not only missed, but hungered for, the hard, thin, muscular arms that had enfolded her on certain unforgettable occasions; the strong chest and shoulder on which she had found refuge.  She had wanted him never to release her, to hold her forever, and when, inevitably, he had let her go, she had hastened to find a solitary place where she could weep in frustration, slam her fists against a wall and curse him hideously for wakening her from her innocence.

She was nineteen and he was fifty-eight, more than three times her age.  _But that is not where our ages lie,_ she argued with herself.  She knew herself to be an 'old soul,' him to be ageless.  His clear, chill grey eyes pierced her; she felt herself drawn into him.  It happened all the time; it happened every time they were together.  Working in the laboratory, the light brush of his long fingers against her arm summoning her to look into the microscope or observe a chemical reaction; his shoulder against hers as together they pored over a document or teased apart a fragment of fibre from a crime scene; the heat of his body penetrated her skin and warmed her to her most secret places.

He had no feelings.  Oh, he could be roused to smouldering anger, he could also laugh without inhibition.  But, she reasoned, he did not, could not know that the casual touch of his palm on her shoulder caused the contraction of muscles she had only recently learned existed; oh, they existed, and caused her a dull pain in her lower abdomen and a host of unwelcome fantasies, grinning harpies that were only reluctantly driven off by her attention to their presence in her most private moments.

She had often thought that it would be better if she stayed in Oxford, made it her habitation and her community, and never returned to the Sussex Downs, to the cosy and welcoming cottage whose gardens overlooked the Channel; to the hum of bees and the taste of summer trickling down her throat, the honey wine with which Holmes had bewitched her years ago.  If she never again slept in the soft bed made up with puffy down quilts and pillows, and drowsily felt Holmes' light step as he drew the cover up to her shoulders, and the brush of his lips, so soft, across her brow, before he left, closing  the door to her room.  _He would be horrified if he knew that I wanted to reach up and pull him down with me on that bed every time I felt his lips; he would be mortified if he suspected that I starve for his touch, and that every fibre of my being wants more than his mind, more than his spirit, wants to be his completely._  She buried her head under her pillow.  Tears leaked slowly down her cheeks.

Resolutely, she sat up and dried her face with her hands.  _I will not be a helpless ninny mewling about like a kitten because the Master is gone,_ she said to herself.  The word, 'master,' evoked in her a growing anger.  _Damn him.  I will not be reduced to a snivelling wreck by his absence.  I shall send a telegram to the general post in Ayrshire, and if I do not get an answer by tomorrow, I shall call Scotland Yard._


	15. Chapter 15 Uber Alles

Chapter 15  Über Alles      

Author's Note:  Thanks and praise to excessivelyperky, for her inexhaustible store of knowledge on just about every subject in the world, and for her help in keeping this story rocking along! My apologies for my mongrel Latin. -DN

The kettle began to whistle.  Waldemar Jaeger – Herr Doktor Waldemar Jaeger – put his glasses up on top of his bald head and limped over to the small two-burner stove.  Carefully, he lifted his Dresden teapot down from a shelf, and then opened a tin of tea.  He carried tea and pot over to the stove, and using two hands, poured a little of the boiling water into the pot.  Meticulously, he swirled the pot, warming it, and then poured the water into the sink next the stove.  He measured two spoons of tea leaves into a small wire basket, put it into the teapot, and poured on the boiling water.

"So," he said to nobody in particular, "what shall we have with our tea?  A lovely slice of Schwartzwalder Kirschtorte, perhaps?  Apfelstrudel mit Schlag? Or maybe just a little toast, with jam?"  There was no pastry.  There was no cake, and there might or might not be bread for toast.  If there was not, no matter: a cup of tea was always a comfort on a cold afternoon.  And cold it was; his lodgings were cold, small and mean, and he occasionally forgot to buy matches so he could light the burners on his little gas stove.  No matter: he had his warm sweater, his favourite.  If his hands were a little slower, no matter; his mind was clear, and he preferred to work slowly. 

A thump on the door:  "Mister Jaeger, I brought you some things, please open the door."  It was only his landlady, a stupid and thick creature, but with a good heart.  "Thank you, Mrs Alnezadshvili, you may leave the basket next to the door.  I shall take it inside shortly."   He rubbed his arthritic hands together. The mountains of Georgia were fiercely cold in the winter.

He carried his cup of tea over to his worktable.  The grey half-light of afternoon fell over his books and papers, his Bunsen burner, his microscope – his one treasure; his retorts and flasks and pipettes, Petri dishes and racks of slides.  He pulled his notebook towards himself, opened it and reviewed his last entry, written carefully in his crabbed, spidery handwriting:

_"I have it!  I have produced the prime serum, the blessing that the Master has asked me to create, and the means by which the purity of our blood shall triumph!  Now I must subject this sublime substance to rigorous tests, ensuring its dependability.  I am, as ever, dedicated to our Directive."_

He was loyal, that was a given. Was it not proof of his value to the Reich that he should have been sought out personally for this critical effort?  He was not clear on many things in the past, but he recalled word for word the many intellectual discussions he had with the Fuehrer and Öbersturmfuehrer Hess about the crucial effort to ensure Aryan supremacy and rid the world of its present glut of genetic trash.  And when the Messenger came…

He drew a rack of test tubes over and studied the contents of the tubes carefully. "Another group of samples, now." Then, he took a slender pipette and some glass slides, and carefully deposited a drop from each of the tubes onto a slide, covering it with a thin cover-slip of glass.  As he worked, he chanted, unconsciously: _"Venens prohibitionem magii factus est; latum oscurum salvam sunt."_  The slides glowed briefly with a pale blue radiance; it flared and was gone.  He marked the slides with a grease pencil, fitted them meticulously into a grooved carrier, and set it on a shelf.  It had been a good day's work.  He got up and limped over to his one armchair, carrying his tea.  He would take a little rest, now, then return to the work.

_"He will do.  He's lost most of his reason, but he still has his technical skill, although he hasn't used it in years. __He worked for Rudolf Hess, and when Hess was brought down, he was hidden away in Alfred Rosenberg's occupation of Russia.  He was then reassigned to Himmler's organization, to work with the special SS task force that was trying to find, at the Fuehrer's insistence, the lost Ark of the Covenant and the Spear that had pierced the side of the Christ._

_"He conducted some interesting experiments on various Russians during his Eastern Front days, and later on concentration camp prisoners. He announced that he had developed an immortality serum, which was brought to the attention of the Fuehrer.  But his research kept killing people, although they kept giving him medals for it. He was reduced to experimenting on himself when he was placed in Soviet Georgia, mostly to keep him out of the way.  He's 87, young for a Wizard, but his __memory has suffered, and he is certainly__ crazy. Still, he is loyal to the Fatherland. __I have considered numerous ways to gain his cooperation."_

_"How may I serve, my Lord?"_

_"He reminisces on his glory days as a colleague of Mengele and Hess, and the times when the Fuehrer looked on his work with favour.  He is utterly devoted to the Aryan ideal.  Hess is gone; Mengele is gone, and I have had no success in animating their shades to communicate with him, although it is certain that he would follow their instructions faithfully."_

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named flexed his talon-like hands and shifted on his throne.  "Approach, my loyal son."  He grasped a lock of the wizard's white-blond hair in one claw and tugged on it playfully.

"There is a disturbing trend these days; pureblooded Wizards are keen to intermarry with Mudbloods, sullying our line!  There are altogether too many Wizards these days; they breed like rabbits.  No, it is time to cut back on this exploding magical population.  The general Wizarding population cannot be trusted to keep the bloodlines clean.  The only ones to be trusted are my own, my Death Eaters, pureblooded champions of the true Wizarding heritage!

"What shall I do for you, my lord?"

"You, my dear, shall go to the Herr Doktor.  You might be the veritable 'Aryan Poster Boy,' the triumph of racial purity.  Go to him and tell him that the Fuehrer's last wish was that he continue his efforts to rid the world of mongrel blood.  He shall devise an infection that will divest Wizards of their magical ability.  Those who are Muggleborn shall suffer most. But be sure to tell him that I do not want my faithful to be harmed.  My Death Eaters shall remain immune to the scourge; they will populate a new world.""

The tall Wizard bowed and knelt at Voldemort's feet, kissing the grimy, crusted hem of his robe.  Then he stood up and bowed again. "It will be my holy mission, my lord.  At last, an end to the plague of Mudbloods."  He bowed himself out of the room, smirking.

Dr Jaeger drowsed in his armchair, thinking of the Messenger's first visit.  An unsettling experience, to be sure; he had awakened, in the deep pit of night, by a soft voice calling to him:  "Herr Doktor!  Herr Doktor Jaeger, awaken!  I bring good news!" 

He sat up in bid and turned on his bedside lamp, then groped for his spectacles.  A golden light bloomed out from the dysfunctional fireplace in his bedroom: he put his spectacles on his nose and blinked.  His heart hammered.  "Who are you?  What do you want?"

A soft voice, as gentle and smooth as honey: "Do not be afraid, Herr Doktor.  I am a messenger; I bring you a message from Öbersturmfuehrer Hess."

"Hess?  Isn't he dead, didn't he die?  Everyone's dead," the old man mumbled bitterly.  "Only I, I alone, left alive in this freezing place…"

"You are not alone, Herr Doktor," the soothing voice continued.  "Yes, Öbersturmfuehrer Hess has passed on, but he has given me a message for you." A figure stepped out of the beautiful light and approached him. 

Dr Jaeger caught his breath.  The most beautiful angel stood in front of him, a young man in the fresh bloom of strength and health, with shining white-blond hair, blue eyes like bits of the sky above Mainz, an austere and noble countenance. He wore the glorious uniform of a Kapitan of the Third Reich!

"What – who are you?"

The vision took off his cap, clicked his heels smartly and bowed to him, then sat down companionably on the edge of his bed.  "Herr Doktor, I am but a messenger from the lofty reaches of Heaven, where the fallen heroes of the Reich live on in honour.  The Fuehrer looks with sadness on the world today, and asks for your help in carrying out his greatest dream:  making the world safe and secure for the Aryan nation.  As for me…" the man smoothed his dazzling blond hair, "I am a vision of the pureblooded world to come.  See, here is my family, with my heir, the next generation – if you help us to save the world for him."

 He held up a small photograph.  In it, the handsome Kapitan stood next to a beautiful blonde woman with the face of a Madonna.  Between them was a young boy, also blonde, with his father's features.  The old man took the picture in a shaking hand, and as he did so, the three images smiled at him and saluted him:  "Sig heil!"

_ Venens prohibitionem magii factus est; latum oscurum salvam sunt:  The poison to prohibit magic is made; the Dark Mark is saved._


	16. Chapter 16 Brewing the Cure

**Chapter 16 Brewing the Cure**

"These are the control samples, and this is the sample from Miss McNicholas," Snape stated.  He indicated two wooden racks on the laboratory table in front of him; the one on the left held six glass phials of blood, and the one on the right, two.

"I must confess that I have never done this before," said Sherlock Holmes.  "I've made considerable headway in haematology, but never in immunology.  I understand the principle, Snape, but I'm at a loss as to how you will execute it."

Snape sniffed audibly. "The principle, Holmes, is as foreign to me as magic is to you.  It was my intern, Miss Granger, who managed to convince me that Muggle medicine was sufficiently developed to allow isolation of a contagious factor and the manufacture of an immunizing agent from that factor.  The first step, then, is to produce the isolate.  Muggles do it with the aid of a device called a 'centrifuge,' which spins phials of liquid around rapidly until the cells within separate from their surrounding fluid.  I shall then essay to identify the charm used to inhibit the victim's magic and neutralise it."

Holmes looked around him. "Astonishing," he said.  "How do you propose to begin?  I take it you do not have a centrifuge."

Snape smirked.  "You shall see, Holmes, how the simple use of magic improves on the original theory.  Observe."   He affixed a metal pentacle onto a rod held in a vise clamped to the edge of the laboratory bench.  Holmes noted that each of the pentacle's five points was fitted with a small mesh basket with an attached wire loop that hung from a drilled hole.  Carefully, Snape put four of the control phials into f the pentacle's baskets, and one of the McNicholas samples into the remaining basket, until all of the five baskets were filled.

"Now, keep your hands away, Holmes, and you shall see how I employ natural centrifugal force, aided, of course, by magic."  Holmes stepped back.  Snape withdrew his wand from his sleeve.  _"Centrifugus volvens," _he intoned, and the pentacle began tor revolve.  Faster and faster it spun until the phials, in their metal baskets, stood straight out from the points of the pentacle.

"How long must it spin?"  Holmes was fascinated; the phials as well as the pentacle itself were spinning until they were a blur. 

Snape waved him away impatiently and crouched over his homemade apparatus with total concentration.  _He's keeping the spell going, _mused Holmes; _mustn't distract him._  He set an empty phial rack on the workbench top, and brought over his Swiss magnifier.  He perused Snape's store of reagents, wondering if any of them would be required.  A bottle marked "Aqua Regia" drew his attention; he was about to reach for it, when a muffled "Flump!" and a flash of green light issued from the fireplace.  Quickly he went over to it and bent down, to meet the stern visage of the chief mediwitch of Hogwarts.

"Yes, Madam Pomfrey?"

"Please tell Professor Snape that he'd better come up here right away.  His nephew has something to tell him."

Loath to disturb the Potions Master, Holmes turned away from the fireplace as Snape straightened up, murmured something, and the pentacle slowed.  "Look, Holmes.  See the isolate at the bottom of the phials."

Holmes hastened over to the workbench.  Sure enough, the red blood had separated into two distinctly different components: pale slurry at the bottom, and a straw-coloured fluid over it.

"Madam Pomfrey wants me in the Infirmary; I heard her," stated Snape.  "Whilst I am gone, Holmes," and here he looked sharply at the detective with narrowed eyes," you need not sit idle.  Take a drop of the isolate from each of the tubes, using a new glass pipette for each, and put it on a glass slide, which you will find in that green box over there.  When you have deposited the drop, put a cover-slip over it, label it and lay the slides on a folded towel." 

Holmes noted that the Potions Master's long nose twitched, and he looked distinctly uneasy.  _Doubt my ability, do you?_

"Is nothing to be added to the isolate?"

"Not at this time. "  The Potions Master's brows lowered.  "Don't muck about with it, Holmes.  If you cannot do what I ask, I shall be forced to ask Longbottom to assist me, perish the thought.  And Longbottom as well."  He turned on his heel, his robes swirling about him.

Longbottom was in the Infirmary, wheezing terribly, with a high fever.  Holmes suspected that Snape knew; he could not resist an opportunity to taunt the detective.  "It's simple enough to do as he asked," thought Holmes, and he took the empty rack over to the makeshift centrifuge and commenced to delicately detach the phials, one by one.

Everyone who was awake in the Infirmary heard the loud bang as Severus Snape pushed open both of the doors and stalked into the large room.  Maura, pouring herself a glass of pumpkin juice, almost dropped the glass and shrank back as the tall man _billowed _ (yes, everything they said about him was apparently true) past the rows of beds.  She saw him stop for a moment and look to where a desperately ill Hermione Granger lay before proceeding on.  Draco, cringing in his bed, noticed as well.

Snape glowered at his godson.  "What is it, you ninny?  I have left a crucial procedure to attend you; it had better be worth my while."

Draco, his thin face marked with tear-stains, clutched the sheet to his chest. "Draw the curtain, Uncle Severus," he whispered.  "No-one can hear what I have to tell you."

Impatiently, Snape flung the curtain around the bed.  "All this because you refuse to take medicine which will save your life?" he demanded.  The revolting potion still sat on Draco's bedside table, the Flobberworms moving lazily now and then. Snape placed his hand on Draco's forehead.  "You're not feverish." 

Draco looked down, then up.  "No, I'm not." His voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper.  "I'm not sick.  I didn't get the influenza."

As Snape straightened up and opened his mouth to roar at the blond miscreant, Draco dropped the sheet and held up his left arm, forearm turned to the front.

If it were possible for the Potions Master to become even paler than was his wont, it happened:  he blanched.  The Dark Mark stood out, skull and serpent, on Draco's white skin.  "You've taken the Dark Mark.  When?"

"Two weeks ago.  My father had a private audience with the Dark Lord; he brought me along.  I – I wanted him to be proud of me."

Snape grasped the boy by his upper arm and pulled him bodily out of the bed.  "Get dressed," he grated.  "This bed is needed by someone who is truly sick, not by you, you faker."  His voice lowered to a syrupy purr:  "Get out of my sight.  You are confined to Slytherin quarters, and if I catch you anywhere else, believe me, it shall go ill for you."  He ripped aside the curtain and approached Madam Pomfrey, who had been standing close enough to hear everything.

He loomed over the mediwitch.  "Say nothing."

She looked up at him, her face stony.  'You know you can trust me, Severus.  The sooner that boy is out of my infirmary, the better."

Draco, hastily buttoning his robes, slunk towards the infirmary door.  He stopped and looked over his shoulder at Hermione's still form, and then at Snape, who, with a sweeping gesture, pointed to the door.  "Out!"  The boy ran, leaving the door open.  Madam Pomfrey went to close the door, and almost ran into two figures, holding one another up, staggering into the room.

"Brigit!" she called, and the nurse aide looked up from her patient.  "Here's Potter and Weasley!"  Harry Potter, green as grass, clapped his hands over his mouth.  Sister Brigit reached him just in time, held a basin under his mouth, and put her arm around his shoulder. 

"Come on, love.  Let's get you to bed," she said.  She turned to see Madam Pomfrey supporting a fainted Ron Weasley, his freckles livid on his chalk white face.

Snape looked past the two new patients.  He walked over to Hermione Granger's bedside and moved the curtain aside.  The girl lay on her side, supported by pillows.  She was still, still as death, her chest barely moving.  Someone had plaited her wild, curly hair into two braids; she looked even younger than her eighteen years.  With swift grace, Snape sat on the edge of the bed.  He took her hand, her limp, cold small hand.  The last time he had touched her hand, he had kissed her fingers, apologising in his clumsy way for the clumsy way he had taunted her with his own jealousy.

He was always taunting her, provoking and insulting her, challenging and encouraging her in the same breath.  He moved a stray curt off her forehead, and leaned closer to her, emboldened by her unconsciousness.  "Granger," he whispered, "wake up, Granger.  Sit up and tell me not to hover over you like a giant bat.  Push me with your little hand and call me a nasty old git, a self-centred egotist, a sadistic masochist, an overbearing bore.  Oh, Granger, put your arms around my neck as you started to do before you realised it was me, the most unpleasant excuse for a man to ever draw breath.  Granger, curse me to perdition, anything, but do not leave me." 

He brushed his lips over her cold forehead, then the high curve of her cheekbone.  "If you do not live I will be right behind you," he murmured in her ear.  "I lacked the courage to tell your listening ears, I will tell your unconscious, unheeding ears."

A gentle hand on his shoulder made him straighten up and turn round.  "She's not good, Severus," Madam Pomfrey said, sitting next to him.  "I don't want to give you false hope.  I don't know if she can last the night; her heart's been weakened by the influenza.  Stay with her if you want to."   She stood up and drew the curtain closed, then left them to attend to her duties.

Snape bowed his head and laid it on Hermione's breast.  Tears leaked down his face and wetted her hospital gown; tears of shame, of regret, of loss.


	17. Chapter 17 The Lovely Man

Chapter 17 The Lovely Man

"Is there anything I can do to help?"  Maura sipped at her glass of pumpkin juice; she was developing quite a taste for it.  After Mr Holmes had taken her blood, he and Professor Snape had disappeared, into the dungeons, or so she imagined.  She had helped herself to juice and a good hunk of excellent chocolate from the refreshments table, and stood sipping and munching, watching the well-ordered activity around her.

Madam Pomfrey certainly knew how to run an infirmary.  The patients were tucked into clean, tidy beds; one of them only had to raise a hand or murmur, and the mediwitch or one of her aides was at their side.  Sister Agrippina had recovered almost completely; she was still weak, but she was sitting at Hermione's bedside, placing cold compresses on the girl's forehead.

"I'd like to do anything I can to help Hermione," Maura told the mediwitch.  Maura looked over towards her friend's bed; Hermione had been sick longer than anyone.  It seemed that infected Wizards were in rum shape for about five hours, then they recovered swiftly – but Hermione still ran a considerable fever; she was still hacking with a dry, unproductive cough, and drifting in and out of consciousness.  It had been more than a day since she had fallen ill.

.  "You're a Muggle, you're immune to the influenza," said Madam Pomfrey. "Well, I can always use an extra pair of hands.  Here, you can relieve Sister Agrippina, who should be having a nap.  The disease seems to affect Muggleborns more severely," She looked over at Hermione's still form.   "She'll be glad to know you're with her."  They walked over to the girl's bedside. "Up, Agrippina, to bed with you.  Miss Maura will take over for a while."

Maura rose and stretched, her hands at her back.  Hermione had wakened briefly, smiled at her, and then suffered a fit of coughing.  Maura turned her on her side and thumped her back briskly; her mother used to do that for her when she was a kid.  It seemed to help; Hermione's cough rattled a bit, indicating that it was breaking up.  "Maura…" Hermione whispered. 

"Yes, I'm here.  I'm going to grab a bite of lunch, then I'll be back."

Hermione nodded and a ghost of a smile flitted across her face.  Maura propped her on her side with pillows, and covered her up snugly with the white blanket.  A house-elf tugged at her skirt, then hopped onto the chair next to Hermione's bed.  It took up the basin of compresses and poked them with skinny fingers, to see if they were cool and wet enough.  Then, it changed the compress on Hermione's forehead for a fresh one, crooning a little tuneless song in its squeaky little voice. _You're in good hands, Hermione,_ Maura thought.

At least the infirmary was quiet.  Severus Snape had come roaring in, bellowed at his godson Draco, who had fled the medical ward, and then gone over to Hermione's bedside.  Maura had watched with puzzlement as the Potions Master sat on the side of the bed and took Hermione's hand in his – and kissed it.  Madam Pomfrey had gone to him; they had conferred briefly, and she had drawn the curtain around the bed. 

Intrigued, Maura edged a little closer, but could hear nothing.  After a few minutes, Snape put back the curtain and left the ward.  He looked dreadful (well, more dreadful than usual).  _He looked as if he had been weeping.  _ Well, after all, how many hundreds of fan fiction stories had gone on at length about a love affair between the Potions Master and the Know-It-All?  _How romantic, _she thought.  I can see him bowed over her still form, his face vulnerable, confessing his love…_oh, get shut of it, Maura.  You didn't write this part, after all. This isn't your familiar fanfics Snape, who looks like Alan Rickman and talks like Yeats.  This is JK Rowling's greasy git, all right? Good enough that I wrote Holmes…not exactly the sex god of the Edwardian age, hey?_

She was starving.  She had never gotten to the "good big breakfast" promised her by Whinny, and the pumpkin juice and chocolate had only served to whet her appetite.  _I've been eating too much, _she thought.  _The food here is outstanding, and that's what I'll be doing – standing outside of my clothes – unless I watch it._

Sister Brigit was making notes in a book of parchment pages.  She looked up as Maura approached.  "Ye must be hungry," she stated.  "Come out to the balcony, the house-elves will bring us some luncheon and we can get a breath o'fresh air."

"I'd love that," replied Maura, following Brigit out onto a wide balcony with small tables and chairs on it.  Little Professor Flitwick, still recovering, was sunning himself on a chaise longue on one end, his hat over his face, a blanket tucked snugly over his wee form.

The two women sat down at a little round table, and in a moment, a house-elf brought them a large tray with sandwiches, tea and the small red and yellow Hogwarts apples.  "Thanks," Maura said, and helped herself.

The door to the infirmary opened, and Sherlock Holmes looked out onto the terrace.  When he saw Maura, he hastened over to her.  "How are you, Miss Maura?  No ill effects?"

"No, Mr Holmes, I'm fine, thank you," she said.  The Great Detective was wearing robes decorated with splotches and stains; he had come from the laboratory.  "Are you and Professor Snape getting along?"

Holmes grimaced.  "As well as can be expected," he stated.  "He is at a loss without Miss Granger, and I'm a poor substitute. Nevertheless, we must press on."  He bowed and left the terrace, closing the door behind himself.

Sister Brigit looked at Holmes' retreating back.  _Hmmm._  She liked the looks of him; tall, slender, with the hawk-nosed profile that some Roman ancestor had bequeathed him.  His shoulders were broad, his long back tapered down to narrow hips, and she had noticed that the back of his jacket curved over a lovely rounded bum.  Long, long legs, too, and as for his hands, well, they were the long, graceful hands of a bard, or a poet – or a lover…

Nevertheless, Brigit well knew that it was _something else_ that had attracted her.  The man had a glowing green aura, crackling with energy.  Green; an Earth sign, most likely Capricorn.  He was lively, intense, powerful.  Ah, yes, such a man was to her liking.

 "Oh, he's a _lovely_ man!" enthused Brigit. "Och, Maura, d'ye not feel that he _likes_ women, and that is the beginning, is it not?"

Maura looked at Brigit; the red-haired Druid's eyes were shining, dimples framed her mouth.  "You're amazing, Brigit; you've barely met him; would you bed the man already?"

Brigit nodded her head emphatically.  "Yes, yes, I would indeed, he _knows how to please a woman_, and the Mother knows, I've been teachin' those that don't have a glimmerin' for the longest time. I could use an _experienced_ shag."

Maura looked down at her hands, folded demurely on her lap.  She had to be _so careful._ Brigit had accepted her without question, but one slip could bring everything down around everyone's ears and possibly maroon her here forever.  _Although, _she thought, _I could think of many worse alternatives._

"Now, Brigit," she said, "he has a sweetheart waiting for him at home.  It would be sorry indeed if you bewitch him away from her, and leave her grieving for him." _Oh, no, _Maura thought. _That's all we need, to have Brigit seduce Holmes.  I've got to straighten this out. I have to talk to the Headmaster. Hermione said she had a computer…_

Brigit bridled.  "Indeed I would not do such an unco thing!  I don't want to _keep_ him, I just want to _borrow_ him for a little while – and Maura…" Brigit looked at her wistfully.  "When he goes, he'll not remember me."

"Ah, but you'll remember _him._  Brigit, it's not fair; his sweetheart's very far away, but he loves her terribly."

Brigit's eyes snapped. "Maura, in this day and age those what aren't dead, wed or queer are daft or drunken, and as for lovers, they're useless!"

"Do you mean to tell me that in the whole of the Druid community there's nobody you fancy?  What about the two men who drove me here from the airport, Finbar, or Jack- he's so handsome…"

Brigit stuck out her lower lip.  Maura put her arm around her, tucking a carrot –red curl behind the woman's finely pointed ear.  "You can tell me," she whispered.  "I'll keep your confidence."

"A pretty face an' a big Willie don't make a good lover, and I should know, I've tried 'em all," said Brigit despondently.

_Now I'm in hot water, _thought Maura.  _I've got to get find out what happened to Brigit before I totally blow my cover, or give her the wrong advice.  This whole business isn't going well at all; I've _got_ to get to a computer – and quickly. Please, Hermione, get better!_


	18. Chapter 18 Daddy Dearest

**Chapter 18   Daddy Dearest**

_A/N:  Thanks and praise to excessivelyperky, who has guided this tale through the tangled web a-weaving._

Draco waved his wand over the parchment and the words thereon disappeared.  He bit the inside of his cheek; this was the third time he had tried to compose a note to his father and the third time words had failed him utterly. He _had_ to talk to him.

"Get off me, Goyle," he growled.  "You're breathing down my neck." His devoted follower backed up hastily.

"Uh – sorry, Draco, I just want to help – "

"Then take your fat arse and your fatter mate and get out.  Find me my owl; damned thing's off eating rats somewhere.  And hurry it up!"

Crabbe and Goyle ran, bumping into each other and all of the furniture in their path out of the Slytherin Common Room.

Draco pushed back from the table.  This wasn't working.  He chewed on the end of his quill, and then made his decision.  He stood in front of the fireplace, grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the container on the mantel, and tossed it into the flames.  "Lucius Malfoy!" he called.

_Where was his father? _ He usually answered a Floo summons with an immediate burst of venomous vituperation.  As Draco turned away, there was a whomp! and a green flash from the hearth.

"What is it?"  Lucius Malfoy gritted from between clenched teeth.  He did _not_ look pleased.

Draco bent down to talk to his father's image.  "I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but there's something you've got to know about.  There's trouble here at Hogwarts, and I have to tell you—"

"Do you think, you insolent cockroach, that there is _anything_ that happens at Hogwarts that I don't know about?"  The wizard paused, then screwed up his face and roared, "I thought you were finally becoming a _man!_  Whimpering in the Infirmary when you should have been gathering information!  Gaaah!"

The flames flared and Malfoy Senior's enraged countenance disappeared from the hearth as his tall, black-robed body emerged from the fireplace.  He seized his son by the arm.

"Father, please-" Draco struggled as his father's iron grip compressed his already sore arm.  Snape had dragged him out of the Infirmary bed by that same arm, and he had been none too gentle.

Lucius Malfoy looked around at the few students in the Common Room, shrinking away towards the doors.  His was not a reassuring presence.  "Go, children," Lucius said indulgently, and the students flew out of the door and up to their dormitories.  Leave it to his father to turn on the oily charm when it suited him, thought the boy.

"Now," Lucius said, looking around approvingly at the empty room, "let's sit down, my son, and have a good talk."  He seated himself in a squashy armchair, crossed his long legs elegantly and tossed back his mane of white-blond hair.

_What a fop,_ thought Draco disdainfully.  _Gods, he's insufferable.  _He sat down on a settee.  "Father, there's a Muggle scientist working with Uncle Severus.  I don't know where he came from, but Dumbledore and McGonagall are always fawning on him.  He and Uncle Severus were drawing blood samples from the sick wizards the other day, and now they're closeted in the dungeons."

Lucius steepled his fingers and regarded his son.  "So what?  They can work themselves into a frenzy trying to restore their magic; the influenza will defy all of their efforts.  Drawing blood?  They might as well draw piss, for all the good it will do them."  He smirked and twirled his serpent-headed cane in his hands.

Draco leaned forward.  "I'm sure Uncle Severus knows that.  He's only stalling, He's one of _ours.  _But this Muggle – his name is Sherlock Holmes – drew blood from _another_ Muggle today.  I don't know who she is or where she came from, except that she's a friend of Granger's.  Oh, and Uncle Severus is _very_ interested in Granger, by the way."

Lucius sat up straight. "That's rubbish.  Your godfather would _never _waste his time on a Mudblood, little say a student of his!  In any case, if anything important was afoot, Severus would inform me immediately."

"He sat on the edge of her bed for about half an hour today.  She's so sick Pomfrey thinks she'll croak. She was Uncle Severus' intern; he's probably furious that she's lying in hospital instead of working in the dungeons.  But when he came away, he looked terrible.  Think he's keen on her?  Heh!"  Draco sniggered at the thought.

His father was unimpressed.  "Don't be an ass, Draco.  What about the Muggle girl?   Well? Did you notice anything unusual about her?"

Draco's lip curled.  "They were treating her like a queen, Uncle Severus was going to give her some Firewhiskey when all he gave me was some hideous slop with Flobberworms in it.  Oh, and Dumbledore is right chummy with her as well."

"Where is she now?"  The senior Malfoy stood up, shook his cloak back into place and paced back and forth in front of the fireplace.

"I don't know.  She was tending Granger when Uncle Severus threw me out of the Infirmary.  She seems to come and go when and where she wants to."

Lucius put his hand on his son's shoulder and bent over.  His voice was soft, almost _friendly…_ "Find out everything you can about these Muggles.  Especially the female, yes; _especially about her."_  He straightened.  "Do not fail me."  He turned back to the fireplace, cast in a handful of Floo powder and vanished in a puff of green smoke.


	19. Chapter 19 Are We Snogging?

**Chapter 19    Are We Snogging?**

_Thanks to excessivelyperky for her more-than-beta assistance, also to Patricia McKillip, for the cough medicine with the extraordinary strength._

Maura looked out of the window over the peaceful countryside.  She felt a little tickle of guilt:  everyone was working in the Infirmary, carrying messages to and from the Owlery, or fetching medicines.  Snape and Holmes were closeted in the dungeons, with a large "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door.  Wards weren't working; the only magic about was the house-elves'.  After luncheon, she had gone back to sit with Hermione, to dose her with a cough syrup brewed by Sister Brigid and strong enough to melt drawbridge chain.

She had tried to get in to talk to Headmaster Dumbledore.  _I've done what I came here to do,_ she thought.  _I can do more if I'm home with my computer, and I can write – the least I can do is to try to contain the epidemic, maybe give Holmes and Snape some leads…_Dumbledore was unavailable; Professor McGonagall was still in the Infirmary.  Hermione, her best bet, was still sleeping, still feverish.  _Hermione has a computer.  The Headmaster used it to talk to me before I came here.  Maybe he would let me use it…_

_Am I going to stay here?  Will I ever get home?  What about Pumpkin?  _She missed her cheerful apartment, her cat, and, truth be told, her work.  She belonged at home, in Toronto, where her friends were, where her life was.  Feeling at loose ends, she went for a walk through the castle orchard.

"Beautiful evenin'!"  She looked around for the owner of the voice, and found, sitting on a bench under an apple tree, one of the Druids who had brought her from the airport.  It was Jack, the shorter (and, as she had mentioned to Brigit, the handsomer) of the two.

They walked for a while and returned to the castle, talking all the way, and found themselves on the wide balcony surrounding the tallest tower. "In my country," she said, "Writers have made many references to the Astronomy Tower of Hogwarts.  It's famous."

Jack smiled and leaned on the wall next to her.  "Famous for snoggin' couples," he said.  His blue eyes twinkled and he favoured her with a cute lopsided smile, which, for some reason, made her wonder where she had seen it before. 

"You're a Druid, Jack, aren't you?"  He nodded.  "Do Druids – I mean, is it customary…" She stopped, not knowing what to say.  If they had been in a TO pub, and he had been some ordinary chap, she wouldn't have been standing there like an idiot.  She would have slipped her hand into his and told him how nice it was that they met.

"Well, I've never known a Druid before.  I'm glad we met," she said.  His hand was already in search of hers, and they clasped palms.  A powerful wave of male energy surged up Maura's arm, and she gasped in surprise.

Jack put his other arm around her shoulder.  "I'm glad too," he said, and kissed her cheek softly.  She turned her face towards him.  Nose to nose, they moved closer until she felt his hard, slender body against her.  She put her arms around him, and they kissed.  So sweet, that kiss…Jack wrapped his arms around her and ran one hand down her back.  "Lovely," he murmured into her ear, and flicked her earlobe with his tongue.

Maura's uterus contracted. _Oh, here I go, _she thought. "Jack, are we snogging?" she whispered. 

His even white teeth gleamed.  He kissed Maura's neck and shoulder and pressed her close.  "We are indeed.  It's even better with some privacy. 'Old on to me, love," he murmured.

 Maura felt as if she was being pulled sideways from somewhere in back of her navel (_are we Apparating?)_ for a few moments.  Then, they _were_ somewhere else.  She couldn't move. She felt herself fall to a cold stone floor, felt metal cuffs snap closed around her wrists and ankles; heard the clank of a chain.  She could see nothing; it was completely dark.  She tried to call out:  "Jack! Where are we?" but only a croak escaped her throat.  A door creaked open and momentarily there was a sliver of yellow light.  She couldn't turn around to see who was in the doorway before it clanged shut and she was alone in the cold, the dark and the silence.


	20. Chapter 20 Heaven and Earth

**Chapter 20  Heaven and Earth**

Holmes made his way to his rooms without benefit of a house-elf guide.  It was about midnight, and he was exhausted.  His eyes burned; he had swallowed half of a sandwich and a cup of tea without tasting either, just to shut up the persistent house-elf who kept whining, "Master must eat something to keep up his strength!"  That was sometime in the early afternoon; he had missed dinner.

Snape was still working in the dungeons.  If he was in poor condition, Snape was worse; haggard, almost trembling with fatigue, and gaunt with worry.  Holmes had noticed his behaviour with regard to Hermione Granger; how could he fail to see it?  Holmes' mouth turned down at the corners as he took off his clothes and prepared to clamber into his bathtub.

_She's barely nineteen, a mere child!  She's been his student!  Now she's at death's door, and he's frantic.  _Holmes brought himself up short.  Had he not been fretting about Russell, in exactly the same vein?  _What if, and what if, ad infinitum, ad nauseam!_  He snorted and lay back in the steaming water.  _Well_, he reasoned, _it's not quite the same thing.  Russell and I are colleagues, teacher and student, master and apprentice.   Nothing more.  It's clear that Snape's fallen in love with_ his _apprentice.  It's unsuitable; it's unseemly.  Perhaps he needs a good talking-to.  _

He draped a wetted flannel over his head and lazily soaped a bath-brush.  _I shall speak to him, _he resolved.  _He seems to be without friends, little wonder there, but as one gentleman to another, I can hardly deny him the benefit of my age and experience._  _One would think that he would have better control of his baser instincts; he's a grown man, and a teacher to boot!_  Soaping his leg, he considered his thin shanks.  _Drying up like a scarecrow, I am.  Russell says I look like a skeleton when we're working on a case.  _He lay back in the hot water and thought of Russell.  He thought of her thick strawberry blond hair, most often tied up in back of her head in a sloppy knot, trailing curls, or in two long plaits tied together at the end.  He had brushed that glorious hair, feeling its electricity and silky weight…He looked down at himself.  _Damme, I'm still a man, not a scarecrow.   _He finished his bath and was about to don pyjamas when his hunger piqued him.  The Headmaster had said that the kitchens were always open.  He dressed, looking out of the window of his sitting room.

The window was open to the sky.  A beautiful crescent moon hung in the heavens, surrounded by twinkling stars.  He leaned on the window-sill and gazed at it.  Somewhere a nightingale's haunting song neared and then faded.  _Russell would be fascinated by this place, _he mused.  _She loves old buildings and would probably get along famously with these extraordinary people.  _

The scent of night-blooming cereus rose softly from the gardens below, sweet and romantic and sensuous.  He had not had time, yet, to visit the extensive gardens and to observe the honeybees, which, he had noticed, were everywhere out-of-doors, industriously pollinating the flowers.  Holmes reluctantly turned away from his window, walked out of his rooms and down a long hallway.  He had discovered that if he _thought_ of a place, such as the Gryffindor common room, the Great Hall, the Tea Parlour, the dungeons, the Infirmary – the capricious staircases would align properly in front of him, and he would soon find himself at that place.

The double doors of the kitchen swung open at his touch.  House-elves worked quietly at stove and table, sink and cooler.  He was about to approach one of the little creatures when he noticed the full sized person sitting at a scrubbed oak table, eating soup from a large pottery bowl.

"May I sit with you?" he asked courteously.  "O'course, Mr Holmes, sit ye down and have some supper."  Sister Brigit indicated the chair across from hers.  "The soup's lovely," she said, supping a generous spoonful.

A house-elf put a bowl of soup, a small loaf of bread and a plate of sliced chicken and vegetables in front of the detective, flipped a napkin over his lap and then bowed himself away.  "It smells delicious, " Holmes remarked, lifting his spoon and addressing himself to the food in front of him.

"Aye, it is," responded the redheaded nurse.  "I take no meat, but they always give me somethin' to stick to me ribs."  She ate some more of her soup.  "How's Professor Snape?  He looked fair to faintin' when last I saw him sittin' with Hermione."  She patted her lips with a napkin and put down her spoon.

"Mr Holmes," she said, "Ye have made a friend in Professor Snape, although ye'd hardly know it from him snarkin' and snappin' at ye.  That's just his way, mind ye.  His heart is hurtin' and he's scared that Miss Granger's no better."

"The same consideration, I imagine, that he would have towards any student," said Holmes, reluctant to discuss Snape's unseemly situation.

Brigit looked at him keenly.  He noticed that her blue eyes were lit with golden sparkles, most unusual.  "Will ye men never learn!  'Tis manly to admit that ye love a woman!"

"Perhaps so, but under the circumstances it is inappropriate," observed Holmes.  Whatever was the woman getting at?  He felt vaguely uncomfortable.  She was a Druid, he knew; since she seemed to know so much about Snape, what did she know about _him_?

They continued to eat in silence for a while.  Then, Brigit set her bowl to one side. Holmes finished his dinner and drank some of his pumpkin juice.  He looked across at the nurse aide.  "I've not seen the gardens.  Would you like to walk out for a bit?" he asked. 

She smiled, the small, secret smile that has driven Irishmen to drink and to war for thousands of years, and she rose.  "Yes, yes," she said.  "Tis an excellent idea, to allow the dinner to digest."  Holmes walked around the table to offer her his arm, and together they walked up several staircases, through the Great Hall and out to the gardens.

Holmes was acutely aware of the woman's small oval hand on his arm. She was little; her head barely cleared his shoulder, and he looked down on the wings of carrot-coloured hair lying smoothly over her ears, and the tidy bun, with wispy curls escaping round the edges.  _Hair.  He loved women's hair.  _  As if she read his thoughts, Brigit pulled the pins out of her bun and shook her head.  Loose red curls tumbled over her shoulders and down her back.  "Ahhh," she said.  "Tis a blessin' to get those pins out o' me head."

She smiled up at him.  "If I had me way, I'd always be wearin' me Druid robes, with me hair hangin' down, free and comfortable as the Mother intended us to be. Oh, and barefoot."   She steadied herself with a hand on his arm, bent over and pulled off her shoes and stockings.  She wriggled her toes in the cool green grass. "But I must be in uniform in the Infirmary, whilst I'm tendin' to the sick."

Holmes smiled down at her.  Childlike she was, and yet old, older than time itself. He was aware of a subtle fragrance rising from her, the scent of fresh herbs and grass.  He wanted to get closer to that scent…it had been years since he had touched a woman…_had it been years?  He had forgotten how long it was!  _Discomfited, he straightened.  Talk about unseemly, indeed.  Still, he was very far from dead. Lying in the bath, he had become aroused by the mere thought of a woman, and horrified when he realised that the woman was Russell.  Russell – unattainable, unreachable, inappropriate. He looped Brigit's hand through his arm, and they walked on.

Holmes stopped suddenly at the edge of a bed of zinnias.  "Look," he whispered to Brigit.

 "Where?" she whispered back.  Carefully, he neared a fully bloomed red zinnia.  In its brown centre slept a fat honeybee, its wings folded.

"Ahhh," she marvelled.  "It's entirely asleep, how lovely!"  She looked up at him. "When will it waken?"

"In the morning, when the sun has dried the dew on its wings, it will awaken and go about its business," he said. "It will fly amongst the flowers, gathering pollen, and then it will return to its hive."

"In't the Mother wonderful, sir?  She makes the bees for to pollinate th' flowers, and to give us honey!  Those what don't see Her gifts are missin' the blessings she showers on us all!"

Holmes chuckled.  "For all your mysticism, you are drawn to earthly and commonplace things.  How do you reconcile the two?"

"That's the mystery!  As above, so below; the heavens are reflected on the earth, and the doin's of the God and Goddess, so far beyond our ken, are as close as the little bee sleepin' in the flower.  We are made out o'the earth; we come home to it in our time.  We may look up at the sky an' twine the strings of our earth magic; we may lock ourselves up in a crystal, like Myrddin, an' meditate for a thousand years!  We may take the form o'rock, or tree, or the wind even, but we are still o'the earth."  She took his hand.  "Male and female we are, the livin' embodiments o' the God and Goddess, like the plants an' animals.  We are all made o'the same stuff, and for all the floatin' around the etheric regions ye may do in your mind, sir, look down:  where are your feet? On the earth!"

Holmes looked down.  His booted feet stood on the fresh green grass, and next to them were her small, bare white feet.  They were irresistible. 

"You will catch a cold walking barefoot in this damp grass."

"I will do no such!  "Tis healthy to walk barefoot, though the grass is a little cool…"

Holmes looked around.  He spied a bench and drew the Druid over to sit down.  "Put your feet up here," he commanded.  She put her feet up on his lap, tucking her skirts modestly around her legs.  Holmes took a foot in his hands.  So small, the skin so soft and smooth, the nails like neat little pink shells.  He stroked the sole of her foot gently; her toes curled.

He heard her breath catch.  "Oooh…" she murmured.  Her eyes closed.  A small smile played over Holmes' lips, and he cupped her heel in his palm, his sensitive fingers caressing the back of her ankle.  "'Tis heaven," Brigit whispered.  She reached out a hand to touch Holmes' cheek.

Holmes released Brigit's foot, scooped her up in his arms and strode towards the entrance to the castle.  Brigit put her shoes on her lap, her arms around her neck and her head on his shoulder.  "Am I heavy for ye?"

"No, you are as light as a feather."  He carried her easily; in truth, she weighed almost nothing.  Still, she felt warm and solid in his arms.  They crossed the Great Hall and climbed the main staircase to the landing, and a stairway obligingly swung over in front of them.

 "'Tis the third door on the right," Brigit said softly.  As they approached the door, it swung open.  Candles flared into life in candle-holders; a fire sprang up in the small hearth.  Holmes looked around; the room was sparsely furnished, almost monastic, but it was cosy and pleasant.  He deposited Brigit on her feet.  Her shoes tumbled to the floor.

The Druid's arms remained around his neck.  He put his hands into her bright hair; it was silky and warm.  "Ah, Brigit," he said softly.  "Teach me about heaven and earth."

Her smile brought two dimples to her pink cheeks.  "It looks as though ye're goin' to teach _me _about the Standin' Stones," she answered.  She shook back her red curls and tucked stray strands behind her finely pointed ears.  Golden flecks sparkled in her blue eyes.


	21. Chapter 21 I Hoped I Was Dreaming

**Chapter 21   I Hoped I Was Dreaming**

_A/N: Thanks and praise to excessivelyperky for this beautiful thought from The Dragon's Pearl_:   "Words were magic that belonged to everyone."

Maura woke from a fitful doze.  _Damn.  I hoped I was dreaming.  _ It was all too real: her hands and feet were shackled; she lay on a cold stone floor in a dark cold place.  She could barely sit up; the chains that bound her to the wall behind her were too short to permit much movement.  "Hey!"  She tested her voice.  Her throat was dry and she was terribly thirsty.  Not only that, her bladder insisted that she empty it.  "Hey!" she shouted.  "Is anyone out there?  I have to go to the bathroom – NOW!"  Silence.   Fear prickled inside her, fear and betrayal.  That freaking Jack – surely a Druid would not abduct and imprison her.  Would he?  "Anybody!  Somebody help me!" she screamed.  "I'm going to wet this floor!"  Silence.

Carefully, she tested the limits to which her bonds would allow her to move.  Not much; maybe three feet from side to side.  She couldn't get out of her own way; couldn't get her hands down to pull up her skirt and get her knickers down.  Her ankles were shackled together; she couldn't even get her legs apart.  _I will not cry.  I will survive.  I will pee in my knickers and hope that whoever comes in here slips in it and I can kick their teeth in._

With that, the door creaked open.  Yellow light streamed in, blinding her.  A voice:  "Uncomfortable, are we?  These – guest quarters don't have our usual luxurious WC facilities.  Pity."   She felt an odd prickling sensation and then she didn't have to go any more.  _Magic._

"Please, let me go!  Tell me what's happening!"  A figure blocked off some of the light from the door.  Flames bloomed on thick candles stuck into wall sconces, and she could see the man in front of her.  He was tall, robed from neck to foot in black.  And he was _incredible._ An awesome mane of thick, long platinum blond hair framed his handsome, aristocratic long face.  He held a silver serpent-headed cane in a black-gloved hand.  _Oh, my God.  Lucius Malfoy._

 He smiled at her, a lopsided smile, and her heart stumbled on its next beat.  _Oh, no._  "Jack?  You're not…you –"

The man moved closer.  "Jack?  Hardly. You must admit, my dear, that he made an admirable disguise."  He loomed over her.  "I don't think you would have come with me voluntarily."

Maura struggled against her bonds.  "What do you want with me?  You don't even know me!"

The man laughed, a melodious sound but with unpleasant undertones.  "I know _everything _that happens at Hogwarts.  You, my dear, will be the guest of honour at my- _festivities _tonight."

"I don't care about your festivities!  I just want to go home!"

The man turned to go.  "What you want is unimportant."  The door slammed shut behind him. 

"Wait!"  Maura shrieked.  The dark and the cold and the silence closed in again on her, and she hung her head and wept.  _Oh, God.  I should have been more careful.  It was so obvious that Voldemort would be involved in the epidemic, and that he and his chief enforcer would be watching me – _and Sherlock. Holmes.  _Holmes!  He's been so involved in helping Snape find a cure that he hasn't been paying any attention to the _cause!_   I've got to get out of here.  I have to write this mess into some kind of order._

It felt good to be thinking about others.  It helped to keep the panic at bay; well, somewhat.  Maura sat in the cold dark silence, her mind whirring.  _I'm a writer.  Anything I can imagine, I write.  Does it matter where it gets written?  Could I write it with a pebble on the wall behind me?_  She felt around the stone floor; not a pebble, nothing.  How could she see to write on the wall, anyway?

_I'm a writer.  I write first and foremost in my _head.  _Can I write myself out of this prison, as a start? _ Her heart was jumping and her hands were ice-cold.  So was the rest of her, and her legs were starting to cramp.  Not great conditions for entering a meditative flow.  _Screw this, _Maura thought angrily.  _I develop plots in my head while I'm on the train, while I'm walking, while I'm waiting for a bus or lingering over a coffee.  I write characters and background while I'm in the shower or brushing Pumpkin. I even write dialogue while I'm constructing an elaborate wiring infrastructure diagram for a client.  I can do this.   _She stilled her breathing.All those years of yoga training had better pay off.

                                One pill makes you larger

                        And one pill makes you small,

                        And the ones that Mother gives you

                        Don't do anything at all,

                        Ask Alice, when she was just small…

Jefferson Airplane, White Rabbit 

There's space between the molecules.  Everything is a galaxy, protons and electrons, planets traveling in oval orbits around the nucleus, the Star.  Everything has light-years between itself and everything else.  Or nanoseconds. 

The Black Hole yawns.  It swallows matter and anti-matter.  It squeezes the space out of the galaxies, like water out of a sponge.  The protons, neutrons and electrons, the planets and moons and asteroids stay the same, but their orbits change.  They grow closer together.  Gravitational force keeps everything from flying apart.

Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold…

Yeats, Endymion 

Out of the Big Bang, the galaxies are born, expanding, expanding, expanding.  Some old, old star systems have come to the end of their rubber-band tethers; they begin to contract.  They wind back slowly towards the center.  The space between the morsels of matter is sucked into the Black Hole.  The star systems get smaller.  The atomic structures shrink.  The molecules draw closer together.

The manacles slid off her wrists and ankles. She stood up, stretched her numb limbs.  She faced the wall and put her hands on its rough, cold surface.

Creation continues endlessly.  New stars form out of whirling hot gases; new planets cool, circling the center stars.  The Black Hole sucks the new galaxies towards itself, yet the Creation Bomb holds on to them.  The weak force that keeps the orbits in place is teased first in one direction, then in another.  Distance between the protons and electrons increases, space stretches as thin as tissue paper.

Maura's hands melted through the wall.  She closed her eyes and pressed herself into the stone and out again on the other side.  She stood on wet, cold grass, barefoot, shivering.  She turned: in back of her stood a huge mansion, almost a castle.  The quarter moon gleamed, a smile in the sky.  She watched it, watched leaves flit over its shining face.  _Not leaves. Brooms_


	22. Chapter 22 Ayrshire

Chapter 22    Ayrshire

The train huffed to a stop at Ayr, great clouds of steam surrounding its wheels.  A motorman put down the steps and began to hand passengers down to the platform. Driving rain and wind almost pulled his large umbrella from his grasp, but he held it firmly, trying to protect the debarking passengers from the fierce storm.

A pair of feet in waterproofed boots clumped down the steps, followed by a voluminous mackintosh and a head covered by a heavy woollen cap.  The traveller waved off the motorman's assistance and jumped down lightly to the platform, then strode through the rain to the station house, enquiring of the station-master where nearby lodgings might be found.

A horse-drawn cab stopped, and the traveller clambered inside, shaking off the rain like a great dog.  "Mrs McHattie's inn, if you please," the passenger shouted out to the driver.  They pulled away from the station, the cab's wheels throwing up spray from the pavement with every revolution. 

The traveller loosened the wet mac a bit; it wasn't terribly cold, just wet and windy.  In a few minutes they arrived at the inn.  The voyager paid the cabbie, hefted a heavy rucksack and knocked firmly on the door.  It must have been Mrs McHattie herself who answered it: short, skinny, with a hatchet face and a mingy bun of grey hair on top of her head.  "Coom in!  Coom in, don't stand thair with the wind an' the rain blowin!"  She stomped off to the desk and presented the traveller with the signing-in book.  "Are ye th' Russell that sent me the tellygram?"

"I am indeed, Mrs McHattie.  I shall be grateful for any supper you can give me, and to find my bed.  I have been on the road all day."

McHattie looked Russell up and down. 'Ye're younger than I thought.  A mere lad, from the looks o'ye."  She sniffed.  "Coom on, then.  Hang yer wet mac on th' peg, have off wi'yer boots, and ye can put yer bags in yer room.  It's top o'the stairs, on the left."

Russell took off the heavy mac and hung it up.  She sat down on the hall-piece bench and tugged off her boots, shaking her head; her socks were sodden as well.  So were her tweed trousers, ancient inheritance of her father, and her heavy wool cap.  She stood, boots in hand.  Mrs McHattie waited for her at the foot of the stairs.  "Weel? Are ye comin' or no?  Take off yer hat, lad, ha'ye no manners?"

Russell walked over to the stairs and her hostess.  "I'm sorry, ma'am," she said. "My hat is so wet, I'd rather take it off over the sink in my room."  Mrs McHattie turned and clumped up the stairs, Russell trailing.  The woman opened the door, handed Russell the key, and clumped back down.  "Supper's in the dinin' room," she said.

Mary Russell shed her wet socks and trousers and hung them over the back of a chair she set in front of the fire.  Steam rose from the fabric, and she smiled as she remembered doing the same thing after many tramps with Holmes.  _I've been cold and wet most of my life, it seems,_ she recalled.  She rubbed herself dry with a towel, and then put on a long woollen skirt, fresh stockings and a pair of shoes from her rucksack.  Her jacket and shirt would do.  She tossed the wet cap onto the back of the chair by the fire, and wrapped her head in a towel. She had braided her hair and wound it around her head; she could go down-stairs without looking a fright.  _Although,_ she mused, _Mrs McHattie may well take a conniption._

Her telegrams to Holmes at Edinburgh had not been returned, nor had she heard aught after she enquired at the general post office of Ayr.  So this was the famous resort area, was it?  Early summer, and it looked and felt for all the world like November.  She went downstairs, braved Mrs McHattie's splutters and "Weel!  I never!" and was served a supper of grilled fish, plain but very fresh, a side dish of 'tatties an' neeps,' rich with butter and cream, and early peas.  She drank a cup of strong tea, tried to stifle a volley of yawns, and then retired to her hard mattress.  It didn't matter; she could have slept on a stone fence.

A raucous chorus of crows singing obbligato to a very loud rooster woke her at dawn.  She rose, dressed in her dried trousers, a warm jumper and her boots and checked the contents of her rucksack:  among other things, a waterproof box of vestas, a compass, a small First Aid kit, a water canteen and a box of biscuits.  Oh, and a handful of round pebbles.  She tucked her knife into the side of her left boot.   Mrs McHattie looked her up and down, sniffed, and slapped a large bowl of porridge onto the table in front of her, stared at her a moment, then brought over sugar and cream.  "Ye're goin' out into the moors, lass, ye'll need a good breakfast."  The woman brought her a cup of coffee and a rack of toast.  Again she stared at Russell.  She bent over and whispered, "When I was young I was a wild one, lass.  I ran aboot the moors and had me own way, and none to stop me.  More power to ye."  She patted Russell's hand briefly and then went about her business.

Russell finished her breakfast, put on her jacket and mac and slung her rucksack over her shoulder.  "Thanks, Mrs McHattie," she called.  "I hope to be back before teatime."

"Mind yerself, now, be careful," said the woman.  She thrust a cloth-wrapped package at Russell.  "A lunch for ye."  Russell thanked her and set out into the misty hills and dales of Ayrshire.  She had a map showing local points of interest; although Holmes was largely indifferent to earthworks and the sites of famous battles, he did love to tramp through ancient settlements. 

Russell perused the map, and determined to head for a group of small lakes, about five miles outside of the town of Ayr.  The sun had not yet pierced the heavy Scottish morning mist, and the ground was spongy-wet from the previous night's rain.  _Nothing I'm not accustomed to,_ Russell said to herself.  She clapped her cap on her head and set off Eastward.  After about half an hour, she was warm, and the sun was peeping through the mist.  Birds called, and the sweet smell of meadow-grass rose as the sun fell upon the earth.  Russell's spirits rose as well.  She loved walking.  She stopped and dug in her rucksack until she found the works of the poet Walt Whitman, which was a recently acquired taste.  She walked along, carried by the earthy, cheerful tone of Whitman celebrating existence.  Soon she was whistling through her teeth, a habit Holmes deplored but a skill she enjoyed.

At about noon she spied a small lake in the distance, at the edge of what looked like quite a dense forest.  _I don't see any forest on the map,_ she thought.  She found a nice flat rock on which to sit, dug in her rucksack and was soon enjoying her luncheon of coarse, flavourful wheat bread and slices of roast beef.  Otters played in the lake; trout leaped.  Russell put a crumb of bread on the ground and watched a thrifty beetle take charge of it and roll it off to its burrow.  She took off her cap and unpinned her hair, letting it flow down her back.  The sun was warm, and a gentle breeze brought her the scent of reeds and wild water lilies. 

Rubeus Hagrid carefully lowered his patient, a turtle whose cracked shell had finally healed, into the water.  "There ye go, me lad.  Mind ye, stay away from the squid.  Ye annoyed him once too often last time."   He watched the armoured creature swim away, into the thicket of water-lily stems and flat green pads.  "Fine day," he remarked to Fang, who lay on his back in the grass, scratching himself lazily.  Hagrid was glad of the opportunity to walk out for a bit.  He was terribly worried about the influenza that had stricken Hogwarts, even to the Headmaster himself.  In particular, he worried about his little friend Hermione.  Professor Snape and Mr Holmes had been working the clock around to save her, to bring back the magic, and nothing had worked so far.  He shook his head.  If only he had been quick enough to get Mr Holmes through the Floo network to Hogsmeade, to reach his friend Dr Watson… Fang sat up, his ears pricked.  He tilted his head, looked at Hagrid with a puzzled expression, and whined softly.

"What is it, Fang?  What d'ye hear/" Fang stretched fore and aft, then began to walk slowly around the lake shore.  He stopped and looked over his shoulder to see if Hagrid was following him.  "Ye hear summat, I know it," said the half-giant.  He followed the hound and almost stepped upon him, as Fang stopped short, one paw raised in his odd version of "pointing."   Hagrid squatted next to him, to sight along the dog's head.  _That was odd_ – it had to be a trick of the light.   For a moment he thought he saw someone lying on a flat rock about twenty metres away.  He blinked: there was nothing there but a shaft of sunlight slanting through the trees of the Forbidden Forest, where it touched the lake shore.

Fang made a peculiar noise, halfway between a grunt and a growl.  He took a few steps forward.  The sunlight faded behind a cloud, and again Hagrid thought he saw a figure.  He squinted.  _A Muggle lad?_  Then the sun streamed through again, and the image was gone.   Hagrid stood up stiffly.  "Come on, Fang.  We'll see what there is to see."  His heart thudded with fright, but he screwed up his courage, and walked forward.  There was nothing on the rock, nothing.  It had to be a trick of the light.  "Go, Fang," he urged.  "Go, have yerself a sniff o'the rock, ye'll see there's nobody there."  Fang crouched down onto his belly and refused to move.  "Scaredy-dog, are ye?" Hagrid scolded.  Boldly, he approached the rock.  He sat down on the edge of it.  "See?  Nothin'!"   He looked out towards the centre of the lake.  A pink tentacle rose, as if in greeting, then submerged.

The sun felt good on the half-giant's head.  He looked over and saw that Fang was no longer squidged against the ground.  He had put his nose on his paws and seemed more relaxed than before.  "See, Fang, how ye worked yerself up into a swivet for nothin'!  Nothin' at all!"  He slapped his big, broad hands on his thighs.  "Time to head back, Fang," he said.  "There's a Ravenclaw class comin' over soon."  He stood up; shook himself all around, and almost fainted.  There, on the rock, sat a young – _person_, dressed in Muggle boys' clothing, with a flow of red-blonde hair over his – _her_ – shoulders, and an open-mouthed look of complete astonishment on her face.

A/N:

"Tatties an' neeps" – boiled potatoes and white turnips mashed together with butter and cream and a good dash of pepper.


	23. Chapter 23 You Must Be Daft

Chapter 23   You Must Be Daft 

Draco wrapped his cloak more snugly about himself.  Damn, it was freezing cold in this hideous forest.  Something feathery and sticky brushed his face, and he shuddered, swatting it away.  Rotten luck if the spiders got wind of him – he had the horrors enough as it was.  But, he counselled himself; he had to do the Right Thing.  If his father, that self-centred idiot, could not be bothered to defend the Dark Lord's plan, _he_ would do it. 

Resolutely, he cleared his mind.  As he had been instructed, he fixed his consciousness on the image of a skull with a serpent crawling out of its eyeholes.  The Dark Mark, the same that he proudly bore on his left arm.  _Lord Voldemort_, he pleaded.  _Please, please send for me, I have news for you._  The Dark Mark began to prickle, then to burn.  He felt a pulling sensation in back of his navel.

Draco landed on his side on the cold earthen floor of Voldemort's lair.  Quickly, he scrambled to his feet, and scuttled over to the thronelike chair in the centre of the room.  The being in the chair was swathed in robes, a hood pulled over its head.  Two eyes burnt from the blackness within the hood.  Draco knelt and lifted the crusted, filthy hem of the robes in his hand and kissed it.  "My lord," he murmured.  His teeth chattered, either with fright or with cold, or, perhaps, both.

"My little dragon," the rusty voice issued from the hood.  A skeletal, clawed hand reached out and cupped the boy's chin.  Draco cringed; the hand felt dry, scratchy and scaly.  It smelt rank, unwashed.  "Have you news for me?"

Draco tried not to breathe too deeply.  He inclined his head.  "Yes, my lord.  It concerns Hogwarts.  A Muggle scientist has come to try to find a cure for the influenza.  He's working with my godfather, Severus Snape."

The Dark Lord considered for a moment.  He released Draco's chin and propped his head on his clenched fist.  "Yesss, Severus has told me about him.  Pay no attention to him; it is all for show.  The efforts will fail – must fail.  They cannot concoct a substance that will restore magic."

Draco looked up.  "With respect, my lord, but they brought in a Muggle girl who they say has taken an influenza medicine that is supposed to keep her from catching the disease.  They were taking her blood yesterday."

Voldemort leaned forward n his chair.  "Who is she?  Where did she come from?"

"I do not know, my lord.  I only know that when I was in the infirmary, trying to find out what was going on, that Uncle Severus and this Muggle man, Holmes, were drawing her blood.  They were talking about something called 'vaccine.'  She knows Hermione Granger; I think that's who brought her to Hogwarts.  Oh, and Dumbledore's quite fond of her."

"I am not surprised that the Mudblood witch is involved.  Do not trouble yourself with her, little dragon.  She will be the first of the Mudbloods to succumb to the potion, but not the last.  As for the Muggle girl, I believe she is in good hands.  But, my dear, please continue your efforts.  I am interested in this Holmes scientist.  Go now."

Voldemort waved him away.  Draco bowed deeply and backed away.  A hard hand seized his shoulder and a small box was thrust into his hand.  "Portkey," husked a voice, and the dank chamber whirled away.

Draco hurried after his housemates on his way to Charms class.  He had over-slept slightly; the visit with Lord Voldemort had exhausted him completely, and he had been unable to fall asleep for quite a while, his mind spinning.  Damn Granger!  This was all her fault!  Merlin only knew where she dug up that Muggle bint, tatty-looking thing that she was.  Voldemort said Granger would 'succumb.'  He relished the sound of the word, saying it to himself: _Succumb.  Succumb, die, Granger, you Mudblood bitch.  _

As he crossed the Great Hall, he noticed Headmaster Dumbledore walking with Cornelius Fudge.  _Not old Dumby's favourite person, _he noted.  Then an idea exploded in his mind like a Christmas cracker.  Charms be damned; Flitwick was an idiot anyway.  Quickly, he crossed the Hall towards the two men.

"Well, Draco, aren't you on your way to class?"  The Headmaster favoured him with a standard twinkle.  Draco half expected him to offer him a lemon sherbet. 

"Yes, Headmaster.  Minister Fudge, may I speak to you for a brief moment?  It's _very_ important, then I must dash to class."

"Yes, my boy.  I'll talk with you later, Albus," said Fudge.  Dumbledore bid them goodbye, and left them standing there.  "What is it, Draco?  A message from your father?"

"No, sir."  Draco fidgeted with his book-bag.  "I was just wondering, sir, if perhaps, or—"

"Spit it out, boy! " snapped Fudge. "I haven't all day, and neither have you!"

"Sorry, sir.  It's about Mr Sherlock Holmes, the Muggle man who's working with Professor Snape to cure the influenza – is he really a Muggle scientist, and if so, what's he doing at Hogwarts?"

Fudge looked at Draco as if he had lost his mind.  "Sherlock Holmes?  You must be daft, boy.  Sherlock Holmes is a character in a novel written by a Muggle author almost a hundred years ago."

,


	24. Chapter 24 The Pot and the Kettle

Chapter 24   The Pot and the Kettle

The Potions Master made his silent way back to his dungeon from Albus Dumbledore's office.  His peaceful, private dungeon was the only place where he felt truly safe.  _Safe?_  Had he ever, in his life, been safe?  Certainly not now, and certainly not after his meeting with Dumbledore.  He suspected the old man's motives, now more than ever.  Was he building a case that would once again hold him up as the hero, the wise elder who once again saved the day?

Snape shook his head as if gnats buzzed in his ears.  The Headmaster had begun, as always, with an irritating series of non sequiturs and ridiculous pleasantries, babbled on about irrelevancies, and finally got around to what was on his mind, assuming such was still present.

"My boy, how are you and Mr Holmes faring in your quest to cure the influenza?  You can't go on slaving night and day, you know.  You must take proper care of your health."

Snape swallowed what would have come out as an indignant bellow.  "As you are well aware, Headmaster, I am in excellent health.  Holmes and I are working to the best of our ability; that is, to the best of _his_ ability.  His intentions are good, but you have heard of the road to Hell…I must proceed at _his_ pace, since he is unable to function at mine."  He shifted in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. "He is an additional burden in an already difficult time.  I have had to prevent him from disclosing his presence to those who might know his true origins.  Obviously, he is no Wizard; he is barely a scientist, although he is innovative. It was he who proposed the use of blood in attempting to brew a cure for the influenza."

Dumbledore reached into an overflowing cabinet at his elbow and withdrew his platypus-shaped sweets bowl.  "Liquorice?" he queried, offering Snape the bowl.  The dark man shook his head.  "Severus, Madam Pomfrey tells me that Miss Granger's situation is quite grave.  Erm, I should have used a better word; I'm so sorry, my boy."  He popped a liquorice button into his mouth.  "It seems that Muggleborn witches and wizards are more severely affected by this disease."

Snape put his face into his hands.  When he raised his head, his black eyes were hollow, deep with pain.  "She's dying," he husked.  "We're racing against time to try to save her. "

Dumbledore considered a moment, idly tying the end of his long white beard around his belt.  "You said that Mr Holmes suggested using blood as the basis for a cure," he observed.  "Miss Granger is a Muggleborn; her blood isn't pure.  Purebloods seem to fare better.  Madam Pomfrey, Minerva and I, even the Weasley boy, all began to recover within several hours, although we haven't regained our magical abilities.  It must be in the blood…you're a Pureblood, of course, but then, you've also taken the Dark Mark…." He untied his beard and combed idly through its white strands with his fingers.

Abruptly, Snape stood up.  "Headmaster, I must be going," he said.  "I shall think on what you have just said.  If the blood holds the cure, then, I shall endeavour to find out how to use it."

Was that it?  Was the blood the secret?  If it would save her, he would willingly give Hermione Granger every drop of his blood, exchange his pure blood for her Muggleborn blood.  Was it possible?  Could it be done – would it work?  He hastened along the corridor; he must speak to Holmes.  Holmes, whose one worthwhile accomplishment seemed to be his advances in the field of haematology; Holmes, who understood blood. He swept around the corner that led to the second level of staircases and froze.

There, coming up the staircase, was Sherlock Holmes.  He was carrying Madam Pomfrey's nurse aide, Brigit, in his arms, and from the look of things, not because she was ill or injured.  The red-haired Druid's head was on Holmes' shoulder; he could hear her soft laugh.

Quickly, he ducked behind a convenient suit of armour, which swivelled its helmeted head to stare at him with curiosity.  They never noticed him as they passed through a door, which swung open before them.  Holmes set the woman down; her arms remained around his neck.  As Snape watched, horrified and fascinated, Holmes put his hands into Brigit's red hair, bent his head and kissed her.  The door to the chamber swung shut.

Snape's pulse thudded in his temples.  Slowly, he made his way down the staircases, down to the dungeons.

Holmes turned around as the door to the laboratory creaked open.  He had been quite surprised not to find Snape there ahead of him; it was seven in the morning.  Snape looked dreadful – more dreadful than usual.  _Worked till dawn, and then took a quick respite,_ he thought.

"Ah, Snape!  Please have a look over here---" He stopped, confused, as the Potions Master took hold of his sleeve and pulled him outside into the corridor.  "What- what is it, man?  What's happened?"

For a long moment, Snape said nothing.  He looked more like a vulture than ever, his head thrust forward on his neck.  He put his face directly in front of Holmes.'  "How dare you!"  he roared.  "How _dare you _disport yourself in the pleasures of the flesh when those about you are in danger of dying!  Have you no sense of responsibility?  To think I had begun to _trust_ you! And with a _member of the staff_, no less!"

Holmes backed up slightly.  "Now, Snape, I took no time that should have been devoted to our research!  As you know, we worked until midnight and agreed to meet at seven in the morning – I trust that the hours between were mine to use as I chose?"  He looked at Snape quizzically, wondering how Snape knew what he had been doing, and with whom he had been doing it.

"You self-indulgent, indiscreet rake!" bellowed Snape.  "You were seen carrying the woman up the stairs, in plain view of any—"

"Of any Potions Master who happened to be lurking in the corridors?" asked Holmes. "If you sneak about, my friend, you deserve anything you see."

"Sneak!  It is you, sir, sneaking about for an after-hours liaison with that – that Druid doxy – "

"I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head about Miss McDiarmaidh, if you please.  She and I are both adults, are unattached, and thus are at liberty to do _what_ we please _with whom we please,_ which is none of_ your_ damned business!"  The ice fastnesses of Antarctica glittered in Holmes' grey eyes, and he stepped closer to Snape, his fists clenching at his sides.

Snape moved back, then forward until his nose was a bare centimetre from Holmes' eagle beak.  His voice dropped to an ominous croon:  "You lecherous reprobate! All you can think of is your own 'business,' is it?  A woman is _dying, _Holmes, my intern is dying and you can find time to indulge your base desires?"  His hand reached unaware into his sleeve and his fingers closed about his wand.

Holmes sighed.  "Snape.  If I offended your puritan sensibilities by associating with Miss McDiarmaidh, well, it was not intended for your benefit or detriment.  I am a man, with a man's needs and desires.  The woman is of legal age and sound mind and, in fact, we were of like mind, consenting adults as it were.  There is no felony here, and (here he smirked) it is not the custom of our courts to prosecute fornication."

Snape blew air explosively out of his cheeks.  "You are not a teenager with raging hormones.  One would think you could _control_ yourself!"

If ever Holmes had wanted to give Snape a good talking-to, this was his golden opportunity.  "Snape, it is clear that you are in a state of hysteria over Miss Granger's condition, and to that hysteria I attribute your present confusion and indignation."

"How dare–"

"Don't interrupt, Snape.  I listened to your rantings and ravings about my supposed licentiousness.  Now you will listen to me."  He began to walk back into the laboratory, and Snape followed him.  He sat on a stool.

"I am fully aware of Miss Granger's dire situation, and have been following your lead to find a way to save her.  But, unlike you, Snape, I don't have magic, and I never said I could work miracles.  We are doing our best.  I believe you tried your own magic on her to no avail; I saw no sense in asking you to repeat a fruitless endeavour.

I've noticed something else.  No, no – " he held up his hand as Snape strode away, then turned back, his mouth open, ready to roar.   "I am not the only one to notice because you have made no secret of it:  you are besotted with your own student."

Snape turned his back.  His shoulders were hunched up about his ears, and Holmes could see his right hand clenching about his wand.  _I'm on dangerous territory, but I must set him to rights._  "Snape, one can see it clearly – when you speak to her, when you speak about her – you are obsessed with the girl."

Snape turned back.  His gaunt visage was greenish with fury.  "You dare to talk to me about feelings?  About emotions?  What would you know? Have you ever given your time and patience, your experience and support to bring someone up to your standards?  Have you ever been a mentor to a brilliant student, and put up with her quirks and idiosyncrasies, her prejudices and blockheaded stubbornness for the glorious triumph of seeing her intellect flower?  Have you molded the raw clay into porcelain of unimaginable fineness, refined the gross ore into gold?"

He subsided and sat on a stool, his head down.  _Granger, his Granger, his harpy, his devil, his Muse, his –_

Holmes sat still, looking at him.   "Yes," he said quietly.  "I have done all those things, and more.  I have patiently teased out the tangled strings of guilt and chagrin, unravelled the Gordian knot of anxiety and worked to restore a self to its healthy strength.  I've seen my own talents _trumped_ by my student's ability to use them better than I could myself.  I've taught by example as well as by lecture, and I've surprised myself by my own patience."

Snape stood.  "You have no right to tell me what I should think!  I am _not _besotted by Miss Granger."

Holmes stood in front of him.  "You are correct.  You are not besotted.  You are deeply and impossibly in love with her, and you cannot let it continue.  You must find a way to regain your perspective, man.  She's a student!  You are twice her age!  You do her no kindness to keep her image in thrall to your lust. You do yourself no favours by remaining isolated from women whose company is appropriate to a mature man's healthy needs."

Snape had had enough.  He seized Holmes' jacket in his hands and pushed the man back against the wall, his feet dangling.  "I have had quite enough of _you_, you hypocrite!" he shouted.  "I have had all I can stand of your criticism of me, what I do, how I think, your pious suppositions about what I _feel_!  I deplore your raving on about your precious Russell! 'Russell says this,' and 'Russell discovered that, ' 'Russell gave me Hell's own argument on that,' and 'Russell and I went three rounds on those concepts,' and so forth!" He let go of Holmes' jacket, and the detective dropped to the floor, wincing.

"Do you not think _you_ give yourself away with every word?  I am not surprised that you found a convenient outlet for your raging desires whilst you are away from the infamous Russell!"  Snape put his nose up to Holmes' and sneered.  He lowered his voice to a whisper:  "You think that you can conceal your dread secret?  I _know_ what you are, Holmes.  You are eager to tell me how inappropriate is my _supposed _infatuation with Miss Granger, but-" and here he slyly smirked, "_how appropriate is your passion for your young Mister Russell?"_

Holmes' jaw dropped.  He stared at Snape.  First, he chuckled, then he chortled, then the Great Detective threw back his head and roared with laughter.  Tears ran down his cheeks.  He sank to his heels, then sat on the floor and finally lay down at length, pounding the wall with his fist, as gale after gale of laughter rang out.

Incensed, Snape drew himself up and strode to the door.  "You idiot!" he shouted. He swirled out of the door, which banged shut after him.


	25. Chapter 25 Tomorrow Belongs To Me

Chapter 25 Tomorrow Belongs to Me

Thanks and praise to excessivelyperky, whose wit and presence (and inexhaustible store of knowledge) inform this increasingly complex tale. As always, anyone you recognise belongs either to JK Rowling, Arthur Conan Doyle or Laurie R. King. Blessed be!

**__**

_"All is proceeding as you ordered, my Lord. Jaeger received the materials I sent him and straightaway set about his work."_

_"You have monitored his progress personally?"_

_"Yes, my Lord. I visit him every two nights or thereabouts. He is always happy to see me; eager to show me how his work is proceeding. Last night he announced that the serum is ready and he needs test subjects. I told him I would speak to my leader, the __Kommandant.__" _The blond wizard smiled; the Third Reich morbidly fascinated Voldemort, and to give him the honorary rank of 'Commander' was most flattering.

"Yesss, my dear, I like that. I have located the ideal subjects. So perfect, my dear, that they shall not only be the subjects of the final test, but shall also deliver our much-needed ethnic cleansing to the impure Wizarding World."

Doktor Jaeger ushered the six visitors into his small, cramped apartment. 'Come in, gentlemen, come in," he said. "I have been expecting you, I am honoured by your presence!" Kapitan Klaus Schlechtglaube smiled hospitably as the scientists seated themselves in Doktor Jaeger's small sitting-room. He introduced himself to the visitors, going around and shaking each one's hand. Humming to himself a little Schubert art song, _Stern die Liebe, Glanz Gebilde_ (Lovely stars of shining vision), he prepared the tea. The visitors accepted refreshments and politely questioned Jaeger about his early research in genetics. They were, after all, geneticists from the University of Meknes, and they had been interested onlookers during the Second War. In particular, Dr Mengele's experiments had been fascinating.

"We have been seeking you for many years, Dr Jaeger," said Dr Abdullah Ibn Fawzi, the celebrated innovator of cloning as it had been practiced in the Middle East for years before a humble cloned sheep had been born in Scotland. "We understand that you have developed a serum that encourages human cells to respond to cloning in the laboratory."

"Yes, yes," replied Dr Jaeger. His eyes sparkled behind his thick glasses. Kapitan Schlechtglaube seated the elderly man as he might a dear father, gave him a cup of tea. The old man fondly patted his hand. "Thank you, Herr Kapitan." He turned to his visitors: 'He treats me as if he were my son. Now, gentlemen, a mere half-milliliter, taken orally, permeates the cells of the entire body with a willingness to participate in cloning. Within a half hour, a paring of the fingernail, a cheek swab or even a strand of hair is imbued with the properties of cooperation. I intend to demonstrate the same to you this very day."

The tea that afternoon was particularly nice, thanks to the Kapitan's generosity. There was cream for the tea, cake and pastries that must have come from Vienna, and a fine set of porcelain cups, saucers and plates. The tea finished, Mrs Alnezadshvili, motivated to serve as maid by the Kapitan's large ruble note pressed into her palm, removed the cups and plates and then left them alone.

"Now," said Dr Jaeger, "here is your chance to participate in the creation of history, gentlemen." He went to his worktable and returned with a rack carrying eight small glass tubes, each with about a quarter inch of clear fluid in the bottom.

"Now, before we begin, Dr Jaeger," said Dr Ezra Hamzawi, "once we have taken the serum, and given you the small sample of tissue, what then? How will we know the results? Surely you don't intend to duplicate all of us!" There was general laughter.

"It's quite simple, gentlemen," Dr Jaeger said mildly. "Your sample will be combined with a culture of stem cells from laboratory mice. Within a few minutes, the cells will begin to mutate, and then -- and then, meine Herren, you shall see mouse stem cells transform into human cells – with your own DNA! What you do with these samples, then, is up to you. I shall provide you with chilled carrying cases, so you can take these little miracles back to your own country." He handed each of the scientists a vial of serum, offered one to Kapitan Schlechtglaube, and took the one remaining vial in his hand. "Oh, I must remind you that no alcohol was used in the preparation of the serum, as I understand that some of you may not take strong drink."

"A toast, gentlemen, to science. Tomorrow belongs to us!" They raised the phials, and as one, drank down the few drops of serum. Dr Jaeger hobbled amongst his visitors, taking pulses, peering into eyes for any signs of distress. Everyone seemed to feel quite well, and after a half hour, he brought over a tray with individual swabs in test-tubes, to collect a tiny bit of epithelial material from the inside of each scientist's mouth. That done, he sat down in his chair, and looked round at his distinguished visitors.

"You can't possibly imagine, gentlemen," he said softly, "how much you have done to save the world." He looked at Dr Hamzawi. The man's eyes looked distant then surprised.

Herr Kapitan Schlechtglaube stood, pulling down his trim uniform jacket. He turned to Jaeger: "It is time for the final steps, Herr Doktor." In one fluid motion, he drew a slender wooden stick from his left sleeve. "Now, Doktor, we must pronounce the charm together." Jaeger withdrew his wand reverently from his sleeve, held it aloft and murmured, "Omnia incantata facta sunt!" The virulent, mutated influenza virus travelled swiftly to the unsuspecting subjects' lungs, where it multiplied at an impossible rate, choking off breath, squeezing bronchial tubes flat. The learned doctors squirmed in their seats, grabbing at their throats, looks of horror upon their faces. In a moment they were dead.

Jaeger hastened over to the first man, probing for a pulse. He turned to the Kapitan: "Something is wrong! They should have felt no ill effects, none at all! They should be awake, awaiting the results of the stem cell procedure! That was the first step of creating a base of purebred clones – the next generation of Aryan children!" Distractedly, he tottered from one to the other, verifying their death, the expressions of pain and terror on their faces.

Kapitan Schlechtglaube put his arm around the old man's shoulder. "Now, now," he soothed, "every experiment carries some risks. It may be that their – ethnic makeup, Middle Eastern descent, has affected the test in some way. It's an unfortunate outcome, but we cannot bring them back. They chose to participate in our effort, and they have paid the ultimate price. I will transport them back to my Headquarters, and officials there will contact the families. Please, sit down and stop worrying," and he put the old man into a chair. A few swishes and flicks of his wand, and the hapless scientists were gone.

Doktor Jaeger put his face into his hands. "What shall I do? They were to be the parents of tomorrow!" He began to weep. Klaus Schlechtglaube crossed his arms and twiddled his snake-headed swagger stick in his fingers. He shook his head. Poor old swot. He sighed. "Avada Kedavra."

A/N: Omnia incantata facta sunt! Let all the spells be cast!


	26. Chapter 26 Loose Morals

Chapter 26     Loose Morals

_Author's Note: _ This chapter has been abridged to conform to Fanfiction.net's restraints on suggestive material.

The unexpurgated chapter, lemons and all, may be found at **www.adultfanfiction.nt/aff/story.php?no=11212**

Maura staggered as she was dragged backwards through what felt like a sandstorm.  She stood in the cold cell again, shackled to the wall.  Lucius Malfoy held her by the hair.  His other hand, in its slick black leather glove, touched her cheek. He bent his head towards her until his lips brushed her ear.

"Very clever, very clever indeed.  How amusing to watch you 'write' yourself out of captivity, my dear!  But it isn't magic, is it?   You're a Muggle.   You have no access to the magickal world; you can 'write' yourself anywhere in your head, but the rest of you remains where you're put – where_ I _put you.  Whatever shall I do with you?"  His warm breath tickled her neck, and she shuddered.

Malfoy walked around her, looking her up and down.  "I don't suppose you're a virgin, are you?"

A spark of outrage flared in Maura's spirit.  "It's none of your business!' she shouted.  "I don't suppose _you're _a virgin either!"

Malfoy snorted with laughter. "Cheek, is it?" He stood so close to her that she could feel his body heat through his black robes.  "Child, I'm a man!  More than that, I'm a wizard.  I celebrate the carnal as well as the intellectual."  He looked down at her, and she shivered.  His blue eyes shone silver, like a wolf's.  "Well, it's little sport if you're not a virgin.  Mudbloods!  Loose morals, shagging anything and everything, like the animals you are, and – " his voice dropped to a soft, silky purr – "an occasional taste of the forbidden."  He looked her up and down, up and down, and Maura's flame ignited into a blaze.

"Get away from me!" she cried.  "If you're going to kill me, do it right here and now.  I'd rather screw a snake than the likes of you!"

Malfoy smiled at her, that same lopsided smile that had looked so charming on Jack's face – but he wasn't Jack.  "Slytherins _are_ serpents, child, but I think you know that. "  His voice subsided to an oily murmur. "I would not ask you to do anything that you don't want to do.   So –" He put his arm around her shoulders and touched his lips to her forehead.  His gloved hand raised her chin.  "Your hot Celtic blood will do it for you."  His tongue flicked her earlobe, then her lips, and she trembled, inside and outside. 

_Oh, no, please, God…_

"I can let you play – you can imagine yourself back at Hogwarts, for all I care – or I can play with _you._  Yes – I think it's best.  _Stupefy."_

__

Maura opened her eyes.  She vaguely remembered being carried through rooms, through a low-ceilinged passageway. _Rosemary's Baby…they carried Mia Farrow through the linen closet…_She couldn't move.  No surprise there; the last thing she remembered was Lucius Malfoy putting _Stupefy _on her.

She was lying on a bed, a comfortable bed.  Better than a stone floor, at any rate.  There was very little light. She could move her eyes a little, and her peripheral vision showed her that there were drawn curtains all round the bed.  She couldn't feel her own hands or feet or anything.  She didn't feel cold or hot.  _How do I know I'm on a comfortable bed?  _She surely couldn't figure that one out. 

_If I don't have access to magic, how did I write Sherlock Holmes to Hogwarts? It had to be Hermione…_She remembered the strange characters that appeared on her computer screen that night.  When she copied them into her notebook, she _said something… cripes! Was it a spell? _All she could remember was the first word:  "_Tuatha."    _

She tried calling out, but her mouth wouldn't work.  The curtains parted, and she was aware of firelight.  _Oh, shit, here's Malfoy again.  _Her heart sank.  He moved within her field of vision.  _Too bad he's such a monster,_ she thought.  _He was the one kissing me on the Astronomy Tower balcony; it was he who made my insides jump. _  He wore a green silk robe open to his waist, and she could see his white-skinned chest and stomach.  _Nice pecs, and quite a six-pack_, she observed.  That hair….that fabulous flaxen hair lay loose on his shoulders, and fell forward as he sat down on the side of the bed and leaned over her.

"Are you comfortable, my dear?  Do you like your robe?"  Malfoy lifted her hand so that she could see the loose sleeve of the garment she was wearing.  It was sheer as smoke.  _Green, what a surprise.  Slytherin all the way.  _He let her hand drop back onto the bed.  Malfoy had even taken off his gloves, she noted with surprise.  His hands looked thin and hard, with perfectly manicured nails buffed to a shine.  "It would be such a pity if you could not experience my touch," he smirked.  He put his hand on her cheek; she could feel it, smooth and light and skillful.

_You smug bastard,_ she thought.  _I don't want your touch.  _She was lying to herself; she was consumed with curiosity.  _Take off that robe,_ she said silently.  _I want to see the Pride of Slytherin. Let's see how magnificent you really are._

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow at her.  "Oh?  Do you really want to see how magnificent I am?"  He grinned and moved closer to her. "Ladies first."

_Damn.  Legilimency.  Well, anything you read in my mind, you creep, you deserve to know._ Malfoy undid something in the front of her garment.  She could see the two sides of it as he parted it and laid it over her arms.  Her heart pounded.  He looked at her, expressionless.  Then, his thin hand touched her shoulder. 

 "For a Muggle," he said, "you are rather delicate.  You don't look a cow, like so many of your sisters.  His hair trailed over her skin.  _Oh, God.  I can't help it.  I want to touch him._

He raised his head.  " Well, indeed!" he remarked.  "You may not touch me, my dear – not yet.  I'm not done touching you." 

_Very well, _Maura thought.  _Legilimens this, Lucius: release me and I promise you won't be sorry.  I'm told I'm _very_ good._

Malfoy chuckled.  "I've had the best and most skillful and most inventive sexual partners in the world, and you think _you're_ good?  Hah!  You don't know what "good" is.  I can just imagine the lot you've spread your legs for."

_Try me._

"Oh, I intend to, my dear."  She realised that she was able to move her hand slightly.

_Not enough.  Release the spell._

"And risk your damaging my person?"

Maura hoped her mind wouldn't convey her smirk as she thought; '_Do you want to live forever?_ She centered a picture of Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman, straddling a prone Michael Keaton's Batman, on her mental screen.

"I intend to live forever.  I don't intend to do it with your claw marks all over me, little cat."

She let him experience the smirk.  _Once bitten, twice shy.  You'll spoil all the fun. _

"Very well, little Mudblood.  Let's see if you're really as good as you think you are."  The wizard rose and dropped his robe to the floor.   "Surprise me," he said.

He lay down on his side, facing her, his left forearm supporting his torso. Firelight licked at his shoulders, gilding the outline of his body and turning his white-blond hair into a nimbus of gossamer.   His long face and high cheekbones were barely limned by the light of a single candle on the bedside table.  His features were relaxed, his mouth slightly open, his brow smooth.  His lips were thin and even and looked cruel.

Slowly, she reached out to him and put her hand on his chest.  The skin was smooth as marble and warm.  She touched his breast; barely a few hairs there and those, silver-white.  Her gaze travelled downward.  Just below his navel, an arrow of dark hair began, spreading over his belly and culminating over his pubis in carefully trimmed tight curls.  His right hand lay on his hip. 

He arched an eyebrow.  "Am I not beautiful? I give you this, my body, my presence.  Why are you looking at me with that calculating regard, as if I were an experiment spread out before you?"

Maura drew in a deep breath.  Sensation flooded her; she could move.  She let her eyes travel over Lucius Malfoy's face.  His nostrils flared; she could see a pulse pounding in his throat.  Oh, he _was_ beautiful, like sculptured white marble, and endowed like Michelangelo's David.  _I'm crazy.  I've lost my mind, but if he kills me, at least I will have had one staggering adventure._ 

She experimented with her voice; it hadn't come back.  Damn.  _ You asked me to surprise you, to make you gasp with passion. I haven't got any magic, you know._

"Of course not, but surely you're capable of something?  Or were you merely boasting? Are you a cow after all?"

Maura's mind whirled.  Somewhere deep in her brain, away from Malfoy's Legilimens skill, she balanced the desperate need to get away from the Death Eater and back to Hogwarts, and the necessity to keep that need from him.  She moved a little closer to Malfoy and looked up at his face. _You want to be surprised, very well, then.  You know I'm a writer.  Ever have sex in your head, Lucius?  I don't mean your everyday porn flick fantasies.  I mean the earthshaking, otherworldly, alternative-universe, little-death, shag-until-you're senseless screaming and pounding sex that only a writer can create.  I've written some really steamy stuff in my time.  _

His eyes gleamed with interest.   "So you think you can do this; you can write an 'earthshaking' encounter in your head, and draw me into it?"

_Yes.  Legilimens away, Lucius._  Maura deliberately blanked her mind and began her old Yoga exercise of visualizing a pebble dropping through the ocean.  Down, down, down, through the surface layer, past the floating seaweed and stems of sea grasses, below the movement of the waves, into the cool layers where the fish swim, down, down, down into the lightless depths to the sand of the ocean bottom.  Still.  Still.  Quiet.

_Slowly, he bent his head toward her shoulder, inhaling her scent.  She smelt like rosemary, pungent and slightly salty.  He licked the hollow of her collarbone, tasting the dewy sweat.  There was something else; the smell of arousal.  She put her hand around the back of his neck, her fingers reaching into his heavy hair.  Shivers trickled down his spine.  She put her other arm around him, and ran her hand down his back with infinite slowness.  He gasped and arched towards her.  Her hand travelled downward once more, her palm sliding over his buttocks.  Her finger found the slight depression where, uncounted aeons ago, men grew tails, and pressed it.  He twisted under her, moaning._

_"Don't deny me," he breathed.  He put his hands in her hair and drew her head down, and he kissed her as he had never kissed anyone in his long life.  She felt herself opening and flowing for him, and she rolled over on her back, taking him with her.  His hair fell around them like moonlight._

_ "Now you are mine," he whispered. A moment later, it was done. _ He_ was done._

Maura froze. _Not a word, not a thought._    He put his arm across her body and his head on her breast.  In a moment he was sound asleep.

_Son of a bitch_.  She lay still, with the snoring wizard cuddled up against her.  _Who would have thought it?  Better _not_ to think it. A preemie  .I will never write another word of smut again._


	27. Chapter 27 For The Blood Is The Life

**Chapter 27 For the Blood is the Life**  
  
A/N: Thanks and gratitude to excessivelyperky, whose endless store of knowledge and understanding of motivation keep this tale on its convoluted track. Blessed be!  
  
Holmes stood up and brushed off his robes, still chuckling. Imagine: Snape thought that Russell was a man! His eyes narrowed. He had said nothing to the contrary. Truth be told, he had avoided any mention of Russell's gender during any conversation he had had with Snape. _I ascertained straightaway that he was smitten with his intern, and I determined not to give him any inkling, nay, not a glimmering, that I too would suffer from the same affliction if I were as self-indulgent as he…._ Holmes had always been as honest with himself as he could be, if not with others. Perhaps it was time to come clean; perhaps that would be what it took for Snape to trust him.   
  
He walked back to the laboratory bench, where he was conducting a blood test. He had taken a drop of blood from Hermione Granger, and was testing it with the curative serum he and Snape had devised from Maura McNicholas' blood. He looked again at the test tube; no clotting, no separation. Delicately he inserted a fine glass pipette into the tube, withdrew a tiny drop and deposited on a clean glass slide. He put a cover slip on it and perused it under his Swiss magnifier. At least Snape had been able to magically increase its power somewhat. He sighed. He could clearly see the virulent entities in Miss Granger's blood corpuscles; they writhed and squirmed and now and then divided. It was obscene. The "curative potion" slowly surrounded the infection and the entities moved more slowly. It was slow, and it didn't restore the faint luminescence that Wizarding blood exhibited when its magic was intact. He had seen it in Snape's blood. Nevertheless, nothing would be lost if he tried the serum on Miss Granger.  
  
He swivelled around on his stool. His eye caught a rack of blood samples. Why not? He took a particular phial, marked "SS," from the rack. Again he prepared a slide with a drop of Miss Granger's blood, and this time he added a drop from the phial at hand. The cover slip spread the drop smoothly on the glass surface. He moved his candelabra closer, cursing it for not being an electric lamp, and bent over the magnifier.   
  
Gradually, the corpuscles in the blood of his second sample subsumed the infinitesimally small virulence that infected Granger's blood. _Must have a larger sample_. He found a clean phial, decanted a millilitre of Miss Granger's blood into it, and added a small amount from the "SS" phial. Very carefully, he pipetted a drop of the combined bloods, put it on a slide, and examined it carefully, hoping against hope, feeling his heart pound with excitement. A faint luminescence glowed within the phial.  
  
The laboratory door opened. "Harrumph," the sound intruded on Holmes' concentration. Without taking his eyes away from the magnifier, Holmes waved one hand in a beckoning arc. The Potions Master loomed at his side, looking like barely-warmed over Death incarnate. "Holmes, I must apologise..."   
  
"Shut up and look here!" Holmes gritted. He seized Snape's sleeve and pulled him down to peer through the magnifier. "Do you have any idea what this is?"   
  
Snape looked. Then he looked up at Holmes. "Whose?"  
  
Holmes straightened up. "Yours," he stated. "Your blood, and Miss Hermione Granger's. Your blood corpuscles are devouring the infection in hers. I put a mere bit of your blood into a millilitre of hers, and you can see the result."  
  
Snape stood still, stupefied. "Did you hear me, man? Your blood is curing hers!"   
  
Snape sat down on a stool. He looked up at Holmes, unable to speak. Then he stood up and slowly withdrew his wand from his sleeve. "I do not hold with foolish wand-waving," he said, "but it can be useful as a focussing device. Apparently my blood can fight the influenza. Can it also restore magical abilities?"  
  
Holmes pondered the question. "I cannot identify magic under the magnifying glass," he stated, "but the combined bloods showed a faint luminescence. I believe that your blood, which has its magical properties intact, may be instrumental in restoring Miss Granger's magic, and perhaps that of others."  
  
"We used Miss McNicholas' blood as the basis for a curative serum. I deduce that we have the right medium for influenza, but the wrong application for restoration of magic."  
  
Snape tapped his wand in the palm of his left hand. "I do not follow your reasoning."  
  
Holmes began to pace about the laboratory, his grey eyes lighting as he began to draw his hypothesis. He patted his pockets: if only he had his pipe! He turned to Snape: "Miss McNicholas' blood can alleviate the influenza symptoms, but cannot return magical abilities. Do you recall the Law of Contagion?"  
  
"Yes, it has done nothing for our research." Snape peered at the slide again, his mouth turning down at the corners. "There is not enough blood in my body to cure all of Miss Granger's blood infection and restore her magic, little say the rest of the sufferers!"   
  
Holmes looked fixedly at the Potions Master. "By your own definition, the Law of Similarity holds that a small amount of a substance represents the totality of that substance, and the Law of Contagion holds that such a substance passes its properties to anything it touches. It works because magic makes it work."   
  
Snape rose. "Are you saying," he said, "that if I employ the Law of Contagion on my own blood, and thereby cure one subject, that subject's blood will cure another?"  
  
"It's your law," stated Holmes. "You understand it; I do not."  
  
Snape grimaced. "It is your mind that has provided the solution, if solution it is."  
  
He leaned on the laboratory bench, staring at the slide with his blood and Hermione Granger's blood. Then he looked up. "There is a potion," he murmured, "that applies the Law of Contagion to a substance."   
  
"Does it work?"  
  
"That is not known, but it is studied as a curiosity by Potions Masters. I have it here," and he took down a thick book from a shelf. From the look of it, it was old, old. Carefully, Snape set the book down on the laboratory bench. Holmes stood at his shoulder as he opened its old, brittle pages with great care.  
  
Holmes looked closer. "Is that Latin?"  
  
Snape turned a few pages. "In some part, it is. Some of it is Greek, some of it is the ancient language of the Druids, and some of it is probably not of this world." He looked further, then, his long finger traced a line, and then another. "I have it here."  
  
He turned to Holmes: "The potion is brewed out of common ingredients, but their order of addition to the brew is far from usual. Then, too, the incantations are obscure." He straightened. "I shall begin the potion immediately."  
  
Holmes backed up as the Potions Master strode swiftly over to his store of cauldrons. "Is there any way to tell the strength of the resulting potion?"  
  
"Not to my knowledge, since I have not brewed it heretofore." He looked down at his hands, scarred with many years of handling caustics and poisons. "You will need a much larger supply of my blood; that little phial will not be enough."  
  
Holmes drew a deep breath. "You are putting your own life at risk, Snape."  
  
"Yes, I know. I will tell you this, Holmes," and his black eyes blazed as he leaned on the laboratory table, "I will give every drop of my blood, if need be, to restore Hermione Granger to health. I would give my life for hers. Make what you will of that." He strode across the dungeon and flung himself into his desk chair.  
  
Holmes walked over to the desk and sat down in the side chair. He crossed his legs, steepled his hands. "Snape, you do not have to say any more. I will confess to you that I too harbour tender feelings for my intern. _She_ is the same age as Miss Granger, that is, she is of age, but not at her majority. I would, without hesitation, give every drop of my blood to save her life, and I would gladly lay down my life for her, since she already has my brain and my heart. Make what you will of _that_."   
  
Snape stared at him for a long moment. Then, he rose. He took a bottle of Old Ogden's Firewhiskey out of his desk, and two glasses as well. "Well, Holmes, what do you say to a toast to two lovesick old fools?"  
  
"I say, bring it on, sir. We have work to do." They clinked their glasses, tossed back their whiskey. Holmes went to the small table holding his blood-drawing apparatus.  
  
"You may become quite weak from loss of blood, Snape," he said. "I am going to withdraw a half of a litre and pray that that will be enough. Your body will restore the blood in some time; you must eat quantities of beef liver and spinach."  
  
Snape grimaced. "Using your famous detection abilities, can you determine how this scourge can be reversed on its maker? Whilst I am preparing the Contagion potion, you can administer the curative serum from Miss McNicholas' blood to Miss Granger, if you will. It cannot harm her, and at this time, I am willing to try anything." He considered. "I may be weak, as you say, and will need assistance with the potion. Headmaster Dumbledore is known for his skill with potions; l shall Floo him."  
  
"Snape, If we can cure this scourge with Wizarding blood and your potions and incantations, what has your Dark Lord accomplished? What advantage has he gained?" Holmes stalked back and forth, his hand returning again and again to his jacket pocket in search of a pipe he missed desperately.  
  
"Voldemort is insane," replied Snape. "His real desire is to be the only Wizard alive, omnipotent, with Muggles reduced to the status of animals and perhaps a few chosen Death Eaters to provide him with the constant flattery he requires. I doubt if he has even entertained the thought that his plan might fail."  
  
"That is evident from the methods he employed in causing the infection," Holmes said. "I have ascertained that he infected the corpses somewhere other than Hogwarts, and then transported them, using your Floo network, to the places where they would spread the magic-destroying influenza."  
  
"And how did you arrive at that conclusion?"  
  
Holmes shrugged. "It was elementary, my dear Snape. The victims' blood contained the virulence in an advanced state, indicating that they had been given the infection almost a week ago. Furthermore, it killed them immediately. They ingested a substance that contained the influenza in a pure state, and instantly it set about reproducing in every part of their bodies, including the brain, the heart and the skin. Anyone touching them would be exposed to the scourge.  
  
"They were then passed through flames with great speed. Their garments and beards were singed, and when they landed on the carpet in Ravenclaw corridor, their still-smouldering robes singed the carpet as well."  
  
"His insanity is proven, then," commented Snape. "The bodies were sent through a still-burning Floo fireplace, and might have been consumed entirely. Then, if they were sent through at great speed, they might have missed the corridor, flown out of the window and landed in the lake."  
  
Holmes smirked. "Oh, yes, I meant to tell you, Snape. Professor McGonagall has received an owl from a colleague at Beauxbatons. Two bodies were indeed sent there, but they arrived in the middle of the kitchens when the House-Elves were preparing roast goose. They appeared in the midst of the oven, and were roasted to a crisp."  
  
Carefully, Holmes drew some of the curative blood serum into a clean hypodermic syringe. "There is no time to lose. I shall go to the Infirmary and administer this serum to Miss Granger, and then return to withdraw your blood."  
  
"I'm coming with you. We will bring Longbottom back with us. He has recovered from the influenza, and at the very least is dependable and will do as he is told."

Draco dreaded returning to Lord Voldemort's lair, but he just couldn't keep to himself Cornelius Fudge's statement that Sherlock Holmes was only a character in a book. As crazy as he was, Voldemort should certainly take the information seriously. Why, it should be a mere lark to dispose of the creature. _And take that Mudblood bint along with him; she's up to no good_. As before, he stood in the Forbidden Forest's outskirts, squeezed his eyes shut, and implored the Dark Lord to fetch him.  
  
Half an hour later, he was back in the forest, lying on his side, weeping and gagging and thrashing about. There was not a part of his body that did not ache and burn all at once. As a reward for bringing the information about Holmes, Draco had had his first experience with the Cruciatus curse.   
  
The reptilian face leered down at him as he finished relating what Fudge had told him. "Please, my Lord, if anyone can get rid of this Holmes, it is you!"  
  
The voice, like the rustling of discarded skins, husked: "It interests me that someone was able to animate a mere idea. It is possible that a Wizard with that kind of power could stop the epidemic, restore the Wizards' magic and endanger my plans. But, my dear, we know that this Holmes is not a Wizard. He has no magic. I am more interested in the Wizard who brought him here." A scaly hand stroked Draco's cheek. "Now, if you had brought me that information, my dear, I would have been pleased with you. As it is you have wasted my time. Your father used to tax me with his bibble-babble until I taught him – taught him to behave properly. Crucio!"  
  
Voldemort wrapped his cloak closely about himself. He would have to accelerate his plans to dominate the world if there were any chance that this Holmes might succeed. It was unfortunate that none of Jaeger's infectious serum was left. Leave it to Lucius, that hothead, to kill the old man.   
  
He was confident that the influenza was spreading like the Black Death, afflicting wizards everywhere. In truth, there were not that many wizards, and they would soon be helpless. Gleefully, he contemplated sending his Death Eaters to battle.  
  
Now the time approaches, he thought gleefully. I shall attack and conquer Hogwarts, and make the castle my seat of power. It's about time. It was always meant to be mine. I am destined to rule Hogwarts and the Wizarding World. It is war – a war I shall win. The time to attack is near!

Draco sobbed into his sleeve. He didn't think he could get up; he hurt too much._ Fuck, I'm going to die here in this sodding forest._ He didn't dare to call out. _Spiders, and bats and shite_. He wiped his nose on his robe. Damned if he was going to die in this filthy place. He raised his head. He could see Hogwarts in the distance. Hagrid's hut was perhaps a kilometer away. _I'll crawl if I have to_.


	28. Chapter 28 Now Waltz Me Around Again, W...

Chapter 28 Now Waltz Me Around Again, Willie  
  
"My lord, I have brought you a most interesting subject." Lucius Malfoy's strong arm propelled Maura over to the throne in the middle of the dark, dank cave. He bowed to Voldemort, kissed the hem of his robe, rose, and put the palm of his hand on Maura's shoulder, shoving her down to her knees.  
  
Maura glared at him. "I don't kneel to anybody!" She attempted to rise and found that she couldn't move. "You and your damned Stupefy!" she shouted.  
  
Indulgently, Malfoy patted her head. "Of course, you couldn't know, child. It's not Stupefy; it's Immobilis."  
  
She made herself look at Voldemort. "Hello, Tom Riddle," she said loudly. "You don't look so good for a half-breed."  
  
A moment later, she regretted it: her face stung from an invisible slap. The Dark Lord glowered at her, then at Lucius. "What is this? A Muggle guttersnipe? Why do you bring me such an offensive creature? Kill it and be done with it!"  
  
Malfoy smirked. "My lord, Draco tells me that you were particularly interested in the wizard that brought the Muggle scientist Holmes to Hogwarts. It was no wizard; it was this female. She says she's a writer, and she has amused me to no end with her ability to write herself in and out of trouble."  
  
Voldemort looked confused. "Explain yourself, Lucius. You are trying my patience."  
  
Lucius put his hand under Maura's elbow and effortlessly brought her to her feet. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her against his side. He squeezed her bottom, leering at her. "Tell the Dark Lord what you have done, my dear," he said.  
  
"Get your hand off my bum!"  
  
Lucius sniggered. "Now, my dear, don't make the Dark Lord impatient. Shall you tell him, or shall I?"  
  
"Knock yourself out."  
  
"Apparently she wrote this Holmes to Hogwarts. It was not even her creation; another Muggle author wrote a series of tales about one Sherlock Holmes and his adventures in pursuing and capturing criminals. This one merely wrote yet another tale, setting the character in Hogwarts."  
  
Voldemort sniffed. "That's absurd, Lucius. If it were fact, I could have written those who oppose me into oblivion many years ago; it can't be done. It would take powerful magic to animate the idea of a character into flesh. She could not have done it by herself; she has no magic." He paused, and his forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air. "Someone helped her." He grinned, his short, sharp reptilian teeth showing in his cavern of a mouth. "Yesssss.... someone helped her. Now, who could it be?"  
  
Maura looked up at Lucius. "Oh, I don't know what you're talking about. Is it about – a limp biscuit?" She smiled engagingly at him.  
  
Lucius' brows drew together and he pursed his lips. "I will do something awful to you," he murmured.  
  
Maura grinned. "You already have, lover."  
  
"GAAAAAHHHHHH!" Lucius pulled his wand out of his cane and pointed it at her.  
  
"Wow! So that's the famous pimp cane! Can I see it?"  
  
Desperately, Maura tried to blank her mind. If Voldemort found out about Hermione, hell's bells.... She remembered that he too was a Legilimens. She felt the slimy tendrils of his consciousness tickling her brain. Oh, no, you don't...  
  
There was an old party from Ghent  
Whose dick was so long that it bent!  
To save himself trouble, he put it in double,  
And instead of coming, he went!  
  
Aye, aye, aye, aye,  
In China they eat it with chili;  
So here comes another verse  
That's worse than the other verse,  
Now waltz me around again, Willie!  
  
Lucius' face had turned an unattractive shade of purple. He screwed up his face and bellowed, "Stop it! Stop that hideous gabble at once!"  
  
Maura leered at him.  
  
There once was a fellow named Billy,  
Who thought that discretion was silly.  
He jumped on a table with his old Auntie Mable  
And shagged till he wore out his Willie!  
  
Aye, aye, aye, aye....  
  
"Crucio!"  
  
Maura looked at Voldemort. "Ding, dong, the witch is dead, which old witch, the wicked one...." She let Judy Garland play in her head, top volume, to hide her jubilation. It didn't work! Crucio didn't work on her!  
  
"Get her out of here!" roared Voldemort. Lucius grabbed her by her arm and pulled her up. "Mobilicorpus!" he yelled, and towed her away. "I will find her accomplices, my lord," he shouted over his shoulder.  
  
"See that you do, Lucius. I lose patience with you!" answered Voldemort.  
  
Harry looked dubiously at the bowl on the bed-table in front of him. "I don't know if I can do this," he said to Ron, who sat cross-legged on the end of his bed.  
  
"You have to try, mate. Madam Pomfrey won't let you out of here if you don't have breakfast, and porridge really is your best bet." Ron scooped up a large spoonful of his own porridge, hot and creamy and dotted with currants and raisins. "It just wants a little sugar."  
  
Sister Agrippina, bustling by, remarked, "Sugar is poison. I'll get ye some honey."  
  
Ron sniggered. "She's a little portly, ain't she? Dippin' in the honey jar, I'm sure."  
  
"I heard that, Weasley," said Agrippina, returning with a bear-shaped honey pot. She looked sharply at the redhead out of green hazel eyes flecked with gold. "When ye're a man ye'll appreciate full-figured women." She thrust the honey jar at him and swayed off, swishing her ample hips.  
  
Harry dribbled some of the honey over his porridge and sampled a small spoonful. "Not bad," he remarked, and had another spoonful. At least it was staying down. He had suffered three terrible days of fever, coughing and throwing up. His strength was returning, as was Ron's, but it was strange not to have one's magic about.  
  
"There's got to be a way to return our magic," Harry said, thoughtfully licking his spoon clean before shovelling another spoonful of porridge into his mouth. "If we only knew how it happened..."  
  
"I'll bet Mr Holmes knows," Ron stated. "He's the Great Detective, and I shouldn't be surprised if he's got it all figured out."  
  
"Then why don't we know?"  
  
Ron considered. "Good question. See, if Hermione---" He looked down, and then up at Harry. "We've got to do what she'd do," he said. "She'd – she'd walk right up to Mr Holmes and ask him."  
  
"Sure! No reason why we couldn't do that! He's quite pleasant actually."  
  
"He's working with Snape just now." Ron made a face indicating what he thought of Professor Snape.  
  
"I don't like the thought of going into the greasy git's lair," said Harry. "Perhaps we can find him when he's not with Snape." His green eyes snapped. "A soon as Madam Pomfrey lets me out of here, let's do just that. We'll find out where Mr Holmes is, and wait until Snape's not with him."  
  
:"Cor!" remarked Ron. "It's yer old self back again, Harry! Where'd you put that invisibility cloak, mate?"  
  
"It's in a box under my bed, but do you think we really need it? Everything's upside down, with the Great Hall full of sick wizards and all the staff running about. I don't think anyone will notice us."  
  
Ron considered. "Well, maybe not. It may be hard to separate Snape and Holmes, though; they're working night and day, says Madam Pomfrey."  
  
Harry swivelled around and dangled his legs off the edge of the bed. "Snape comes up here to see to Hermione quite often, doesn't he? I'll bet he leaves Holmes in the laboratory at those times."  
  
Ron clapped his hand over his mouth, and his face paled. Harry followed his glance, to see Severus Snape enter the Infirmary, looking more like an anaemic bat than ever. Right behind him was Sherlock Holmes; wearing borrowed robes smirched with Merlin knew what, looking rather mussed and weary himself. The boys froze. Snape spoke briefly to Madam Pomfrey, who drew back the curtain around Hermione's bed, and closed it again behind both men.  
  
"What do you think they're doing?" whispered Harry. He put a hand clammy with fright on Ron's arm. "Holmes was carrying that case in which he keeps his big needle."  
  
Ron turned faintly green. "Ewww," he whispered back. "I thought they were going to stick me with that bloody great thing, but they didn't, they only used it to take blood out of some of the patients."  
  
"Yes, they took some from Seamus Finnegan, and he didn't even faint." Harry wrung his hands. "Ron, I couldn't bear it if Hermione doesn't get better. I'm scared for her, and I don't know what, if anything, we can do to help her."  
  
Ron nodded. "Me too, I couldn't bear it, and I don't want to think of it." Resolutely he lifted his chin. "Think positively, Harry."  
  
With that, the curtain around Hermione's bed drew back, and Sherlock Holmes emerged, closing it behind him, but not before Harry and Ron saw a frail white arm reach around Snape's back, the hand clutching his hair.  
  
"Come on!" Ron helped Harry to stand up, and both of them intercepted Holmes as he headed for the door.  
  
"What's happening to Hermione? Is she going to make it?" "Did you give her medicine, is it helping? I saw her reach around Professor Snape..."  
  
Both boys spoke at once.  
  
Holmes put his hands on their shoulders. "Now, boys, there is reason to be optimistic regarding Miss Granger's health, but you must have patience. She must rest, and eat when she is able, and by tomorrow morning, she will probably be most happy to see you both."  
  
"Thank you! Thank you!" "Mr Holmes, thanks for saving our Hermione!" Again, both boys spoke at the same time.  
  
Harry stepped closer to the detective. "I couldn't be happier that she's going to get well, sir, but I am eager to know if you and Professor Snape are working on getting our magic back."  
  
"Of course, my boy. It is proving to be quite a challenge, but I believe we are on the right path. Oh, by the way, have you seen Longbottom? We need him in the laboratory." 


	29. Chapter 29 This Too, Too Solid Flesh

**_Chapter 29 This Too, Too Solid Flesh_**

Mary took off her cap and unpinned her hair, letting it flow down her back. The sun was warm, and a gentle breeze brought her the scents of reeds and wild water lilies. She inhaled deeply, and looked around the sunny lake shore with pleasure. How could a local map not make note of such a lovely spot? The flat rock on which she sat must surely have been the scene of many picnics. To her left, she saw a shingle beach, and she could envision children playing on it, wading in the sparkling blue water whilst their parents fished for lake trout.

_'Well,' _she said to herself, '_Holmes is generally oblivious to pretty prospects and pleasant vistas. Now, if there were caves around the lake…'_ She shaded her eyes and looked to the far shore. Her brows drew together. _I could have sworn there was nothing there but trees…_ Above the treetops she saw a tower – no, four, no, _five _towers, each one with a pennon fluttering from its spire. '_How did I miss that?' _ She stood up to get a better view. The sun glanced off the lake, momentarily blinding her, and when she blinked and shaded her eyes, the towers were gone.

She shook her head. Was she hallucinating, or was it merely wishful thinking? She sat down on the rock again and began to stow her belongings in her rucksack. This was no way to find Holmes; she had four or five hours at the most of daylight, and it would be better to resume her search immediately. She looked about her for her cap, located it, turned around and gasped in shock.

An enormous man with an open-mouthed look of complete astonishment on his heavily bearded face regarded her. He must have been easily twice as tall and as wide as anyone she had ever seen. A movement drew her sight to the man's side; next to him stood a mangy hound, also very large, with his head cocked to one side. The hound whined.

"Cor!" said the huge man. His voice boomed hollowly, as if he spoke into a cave. "Who – who – wh-what…." He threw up his great hands helplessly.

_He's afraid of me, _Mary realised. She put up one hand, palm out. "Please, don't be frightened," she said. "Can you tell me where I am? I seem to be lost."

"Muh-muh-muh," the big man stammered, and stepped back.

Mary rose. "I only mean to ask you if you have seen a tall, thin man; he would be a stranger here…"

It was no use. The man's mouth moved, but no words issued forth. A ring of white encircled his beetle-black eyes. He was just too terrified to speak!

The hound whined loudly. Mary looked over at him; he was cringing away. When she looked back, the big man was gone, and when she looked down, the dog was gone as well. 'Iam _hallucinating'_ she thought. '_Perhaps it is the change of water, or perhaps this place lies on the crossed leylines, places the Druids of old chose for their temples because of the great Earth power thereunder. I shouldn't be surprised; Scotland is known to be a fey place.' _

She stood up and scanned the distant lake shore: no towers. She looked round about: no huge man, no scruffy hound. She shouldered her rucksack, twisted up her hair and clapped her cap on her head, and set off once more.

****

Sherlock Holmes released the rubber tubing from Snape's upper arm, and carefully withdrew the needle of the syringe, covering the puncture with a sticking plaster handed to him by a solicitous Neville Longbottom. He emptied the syringe into a beaker that would now contain half a litre of Snape's blood.   
  
Snape sat up, and immediately fell back upon the couch, his head spinning. He groaned and closed his eyes. "Holmes, you did not tell me I would become dizzy!"

Holmes, carefully setting the beaker upon the laboratory workbench, looked over at him. "No, I did not say that, but I did tell you that you would be putting your life at risk, did I not? Longbottom, please give Professor Snape some of that tonic that Madam Pomfrey prepared. He must have some every half hour; it will help to begin the process of replacing the lost blood."

Longbottom looked at Holmes with an expression of sheer terror on his face. "You -want me to _feed_ it to him, sir?"

Holmes shot a grey glare at the boy. 'Yes, Longbottom, that is precisely what you are to do, and mind that you do not spill any, nor cause him to choke."

Longbottom took the cork out of a brown glass phial. An unpleasant odour assailed his nostrils. _Ugh… _He set the phial on the table next to the couch. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip. "Professor Snape, sir…"

A beady black eye snapped open. "Well? Get on with it, Longbottom. Now!"

Carefully, Longbottom slid his arm under Professor Snape's shoulders, raising him from the sofa. He took the phial in hand and brought it to the man's lips, trying valiantly to keep his hand from shaking. Snape opened his mouth, and Longbottom poured in the liquid. Snape grimaced and swallowed. Gently, Neville lowered the man back to the couch.

Holmes looked over: "Good work, Longbottom. Come over here, I need your assistance…"

****

By the next morning, Hermione was sitting up in her infirmary bed, propped with many pillows. Sherlock Holmes had come up to see her, bringing a bouquet of Professor Sprout's most fragrant roses and the sincere good wishes of Severus Snape, who was still too weak to visit. Hermione was pale and wan, but she smiled widely at Holmes and thanked him courteously, asking that he in turn give her best regards to Snape along with her wishes that he recover quickly. As he rose to go, she put her hand on his arm.

"Mr Holmes, I am afraid that he may receive a summons from the Dark Lord, and since he is too weak to go voluntarily, the Death Eaters will seize him roughly. Word will doubtless get back to Voldemort that we have found a way to cure the influenza and are working on the restoration of magical abilities – he will certainly mount an all-out attack."

"Yes," replied Holmes. "Snape has told me of the extent of Voldemort's criminal insanity. As soon as we begin to restore magic, he will doubtless take steps to subdue us. If Severus is summoned…" He looked at Hermione, his grey eyes glittering. "He is a trickster; it will take a trick to stop him." He bent and brushed his lips across Hermione's forehead, took one red rose from her bouquet and strode to the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Sister Brigit; he stepped quickly to her side, handed her the rose, then turned and left the Infirmary.

Harry watched him leave, and then approached Sister Brigit. "If Hermione hasn't had her breakfast yet, I'll help her," he said.

Sister Brigit ruffled his hair and favoured him with her small, curved smile. "She'll have it from ye sooner than from me, lad," she said. Her eyes took on a faraway look, and the next moment a House-Elf appeared, carrying a tray with two covered dishes, a goblet and flatware rolled up in a red and gold napkin tied with Gryffindor ribbon.

"Thank you, Nibby," said Harry, and he took the tray from the House-Elf and carried it over to Hermione's bedside. Hermione looked at him. "Ugh, are you going to make me eat?"

Harry took her hand. "I'm not going to _make_ you eat, I'm going to encourage you!" he said. "The other day, when I was still peckish, Ron _encouraged _me to eat my porridge, and I felt much, much better straightaway. What have we here?" He uncovered a dish of porridge, looked about to make sure that Sister Agrippina wasn't watching, and sprinkled it with sugar from the small silver castor.

****

Hagrid put his supper dishes into the sink, filled Fang's bowl with fresh water, and set about washing up. He heaved a great sigh; he was still unnerved. '_Met a ghost, I did,'_ he thought to himself. '_Pretty ghost, but still – one moment she's there in front of me, the next she's gone, and how I wish I had a wand to make her hold still! Erm, I shouldn't have said that!_ '

He carried his pipe and tobacco over to his favourite armchair by the fire, sat down and propped his feet on a footstool. What did it all mean? Could the apparition be related to the very strange doings in the castle, what with the influenza and the loss of magic? '_No', _he reasoned, '_what I saw was magic, all right. There's still magic, then, just not in the castle…'_ He shook his head as if to clear it; it was far too complicated. Still, he would not forget the pretty face with the round spectacles, rather like Harry's, and the lovely strawberry blonde hair. 'I'll_ talk to Perfesser Flitwick about it in the morning,' _he resolved.

He lit his pipe and blew a fat ring of smoke into the fireplace. Fang scrambled to his feet, muttering, and trotted to the door. Hagrid heaved himself up; "What is it, Fang? Yeh hear summat?" He listened. Someone – or _something_- scratched feebly on his door. He looked out through his peephole, but there was no-one within sight. The scratching continued, and he jerked the door open. Draco Malfoy, crouched on his doorstep, fell over the lintel and onto the braided rug.

Hagrid caught the boy and carried him over to the settle. Draco was greenish-pale, and his face was dirty and blotched with bruises, some of them bloody, He had been weeping; there were fresh tear-tracks on the dirt. Quickly, Hagrid wetted a cloth and wiped the boy's face. "What happened to yeh, Draco? Yeh look to be fair beaten up!"

Draco rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, smudging dirt anew on his face. "It was – I was…" He looked down at his hands, also dirty and bruised.

Hagrid sat down next to him. "Draco, yeh can tell me, it won't do to keep it all in, lad. These are strange times, an' strange things is happenin' everywhere."

"All right – I was with Lord Voldemort, and he got angry with me, and he struck me with Cruciatus, the bastard. I only wanted to tell him something, and he – he _ridiculed _me, and next I knew I was lying in the dirt in the Forbidden Forest, and I thought I'd die."

Hagrid looked at Draco with revulsion and pity in his eyes. "Yeh did it, didn't yeh, took the Dark Mark, eh? That was daft of yeh, Draco. I heard yeh faked havin' the influenza, and Severus threw yeh out of the infirmary. Daft an' stupid, boy. What will yeh father say?"

Draco sniffed. "My father? He doesn't give a rat's arse about anything I tell him. He ridiculed me worse than Voldemort. He called me a cockroach; he said they might as well draw piss as draw blood. He thought it was all a big joke, and he was more interested in Holmes' Muggle bint than in the man himself."

"What did yeh tell 'im?"

Draco wrung the edge of his sleeve in his hands. His voice dropped. "I wanted to tell him that Cornelius Fudge said that Sherlock Holmes isn't a Muggle, he's a character in a book. He couldn't have cared less! And then, when I told Voldemort, he got angry and told me I was wasting his time, and then he threw the Unforgivable at me."

"So they didn't take yeh seriously, either of them. Now what are yeh goin' to do? Crawl back to Tom Riddle?" Hagrid folded his arms across his chest; he had no love for Death Eaters, and he was disgusted that Draco had joined them. "I'm disappointed at what yeh did, Draco. 'Twill do yeh nothin' but harm, the Dark Mark."

Hagrid held out his hand to the boy. "Come on, Draco; let's get yeh to yeh Head of House. He'll know what to do."

****

Sherlock Holmes sat down wearily on the laboratory stool. He had been working on the blood serum all day, preparing it for the next step: the introduction of the potion that would apply the Law of Contagion. Longbottom, as weary as he, was washing up the glassware and implements that he and Snape had used in preparation of the blood serum. Neville had made himself useful, performing the many menial chores that were necessary to potions production.

Holmes had heard that Snape was particularly severe with Longbottom, and had bedevilled his early years at Hogwarts with punishments and detentions. Now, at the end of his school years, the young man had finally achieved a measure of respect from the very Professor who had made his life miserable in the past, and moved with a calm self-assurance as he worked diligently.

Someone knocked loudly on the laboratory door. Before Holmes could open it, it opened, and Rubeus Hagrid ducked his head and entered, towing Draco Malfoy behind him. Draco kept his head down and didn't look up for a moment.

"Hagrid! What is it – what, you've got the Malfoy boy with you; he looks terrible! What happened?"

Snape, from his place on the couch, raised his hand, and Hagrid went to him immediately. "Severus, don't tell me yeh have the sickness as well! I hate to bother yeh, but Draco here has summat to tell yeh, it's important." He pulled a chair over to the side of the couch and deposited Draco into it, then moved back to stand with Holmes. "Bad business, Mr Holmes, bad business."

Draco bent forward, and in a whisper, told his Head of House about his unfortunate encounters with his father and Voldemort. At one point, Snape's eyes slid over to where Holmes stood, but he said nothing. When Draco was finally done, Snape beckoned to Holmes, who hurried to his side.

"Draco has been unutterably foolish. His punishment shall be to assist in the laboratory. He has his magickal powers intact, and with my direction, he can compound the potion. Longbottom will bring him what he needs." He fixed Draco with his cold black eyes. "Am I understood? There is no room for error. You may yet redeem yourself, but I warn you: any dunderhead mistakes and you will be a dead dunderhead, along with everyone else in the castle. "

Holmes wrote down Snape's instructions as he dictated them, and then made Draco repeat them back to him. He watched as the boy stepped over to a cauldron, lit the fire under it with a flick of his wand, and then began to call for the ingredients. Longbottom brought them over to him, not looking at him directly. Holmes surmised that there was no love lost between the two.

Now and then Draco referred to the notes Holmes had made. Snape called Hagrid over, and the big man propped him up so he could watch the proceedings. When all the ingredients had been added to the simmering cauldron, Draco took his wand from his sleeve, and slowly and deliberately, stirred the potion twelve times in a counter clockwise direction, muttering inaudibly all the while.

_Imagine,_ said Holmes to himself, _barely nineteen years old and he's a full-fledged Wizard, using magic to prepare a magickal potion! _Green sparks flickered on the surface of the liquid in the cauldron.

Time passed slowly. Draco pulled a stool over and watched the cauldron, never taking his eyes or his mind off it. Now and then he turned over an hourglass; now and then he stirred the mixture, pronouncing incantations.

"Uncle Severus, Mr Holmes! The potion is ready." Draco extinguished the fire under the cauldron with a flick of his wand. "Longbottom, set out a row of blue glass phials on the laboratory worktable." He turned to Snape: "Shall I call Headmaster Dumbledore?"

Snape lifted a pale hand. "Longbottom, Floo the Headmaster and tell him that all is in readiness. He does not have his powers, but he should be here." Longbottom went over to the hearth, took a handful of powder from the box on the mantelpiece, threw it into the fire and shouted, "Headmaster Dumbledore!" The next moment, the Headmaster himself emerged from the hearth, shaking his robes all round, brushing off ash and Floo powder.

"Well, Neville, my boy! I am pleased to see that you have been so diligent, and of such great assistance to Professor Snape and Mr Holmes!" He looked around. "Draco! It's good to see you here, helping out."

"I'm not sure it's successful yet," sounded the feeble voice of Severus Snape, still lying on the couch, wrapped in a bilious green Slytherin blanket. "The critical steps must be performed at once."

Without further ado, Snape nodded to Neville, who brought over the beaker of Snape's blood. Draco put his wand into the cauldron and began to stir it clockwise. He chanted slowly; he had always been much better with Charms than with potions. At his nod, Neville poured the blood into the cauldron in a thin, steady stream. Holmes, observing from a safe distance, noted vapours of many colours arising from the cauldron, mingling in the air and then dropping down into the surface of the liquid. Finally, all was added, and there was not even the tiniest drop of blood left in the beaker. Draco extended his wand over the cauldron, looked over at Snape, and pronounced a final charm.

"You may decant the serum now," said Snape. "Holmes, you may cork the phials, but try not to allow any of the liquid to touch your skin. It could burn you severely."

The Headmaster said, "It's done, Severus. Who shall be the first to try it?"

Snape sighed wearily. "Longbottom, I suppose," he said, "and if there are no ill-effects, then you, Headmaster. Go on, Longbottom. Swallow it down, and we shall see what we shall see."

Neville turned pale green, and Holmes put his arm around his shoulder. "What's wrong, Neville? You have been honoured, to be the first to try the magic restoring potion."

Longbottom drew himself up. "I shall do my best, sir," he said. He reached out a shaking hand, took a phial of potion, withdrew the cork, and gulped down the contents. He made a terrible face, and Holmes made haste to hand him a goblet of water.

"Drink this, Neville," he said. "It will take away the taste." Neville drank some of the water, and shook himself all over like a dog.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes, "he said. Then, his eyes widened. Hesitantly, he reached into his sleeve and withdrew his wand. He pointed it at the empty phial still in his hand. "Relocatio," he said, and the phial sailed over to the laboratory sink, where it landed with a plunk in a waiting pan of wash water.

"Bravo! Bravo, my boy!" shouted the Headmaster. He shook hands vigorously with Neville and with Holmes, and went quickly over to Snape. "It's working! Severus, Neville's magic is restored, look!"

Neville's normal rosy colour had returned. "Look, Professor Snape!" he cried. He waved his wand over his head, shouted, _"Flora!"_ and immediately all of the empty vessels in the laboratory were filled to overflowing with flowers of all kinds.

Snape rose up on one elbow, glowering. "Longbottom! Get rid of those flowers! This is a laboratory, not a –"He grimaced, then gasped, and curled into a tight ball, his face stark with pain.

Dumbledore hastened to his side, rolled back the sleeve of his robe. On Snape's left forearm, the Dark Mark festered, glowing green. "He's been summoned," he said. "Draco, give me a draught of that potion."


	30. Chapter 30 Impersonating the Wizard

**_Chapter 30 Impersonating the Wizard_**

****

**"**Must he answer the summons immediately, or does he have some time?" Holmes asked. "He's far too weak to stand up, little say travel to the Dark Lord's meeting place, wherever that may be." He looked over to Draco: "Did you receive a summons?"

Draco looked down at the inside of his forearm. His Dark Mark glowed faintly. "That's not a summons," he said. "You can't imagine how painful it is, when he wants you straightaway. I'm just new to the Death Eaters; I don't count much." He grimaced.

Headmaster Dumbledore downed a phial of the magic restoring potion, accepted a goblet of water from Neville, and drank it off in several large swallows. He flexed his hands, settled his cap more firmly on his head, and tucked the end of his beard into his belt. "First things first," he said. "There are ten phials of potion left; that will restore magic to ten Witches and Wizards. Then, we must prepare more of the potion. You have used the Law of Contagion; anyone who has taken the potion must contribute some of their blood, although not as much as Professor Snape. Each blood sample must be used for another batch, and so on. Several batches can be prepared at the same time. Longbottom, let me see: ah, yes, give the potion to Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, Madam Pomfrey and her aides; that's five—"

"Miss Granger…" Snape interrupted him.

"Yes, yes, of course, Miss Granger, and if she is well enough, please ask her to come down to assist. There will be enough for four more doses; leave their distribution to Madam Pomfrey."

Longbottom nodded, put the phials carefully into a padded basket, and stepped into the Floo. "Infirmary!" he shouted, casting down a handful of powder and vanishing in a puff of green smoke and sparks.

"Draco, will you take charge of potions production until Professor Snape is recovered?" Albus Dumbledore put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Do you understand that by helping us you are acting counter to Voldemort's ambitions for you, as well as to your father's expectations?"

Draco looked down at the Mark, then up at the Headmaster's solemn face. "Yes," he said. "I understand." His mouth tightened. "I'm fed up of it. I was daft to take the Mark, in the hope that it would impress my father." He hunched his shoulders, shifted from foot to foot, paced a few steps and turned, rage on his face. "How stupid I was, to think that anythingI did would matter to him! I hate the way I am with him; I talk the way he does, I fucking stand the way he does; I turn into him, and for what? He despises me, he'll never respect me." He screwed up his face, looking for a moment exactly like his sire, and shouted, "He's a monster, and I won't be a monster to gain his favour! I don't give a shite if he disowns me; I'm done with him! Finished!" He sat down on a laboratory stool and hung his head.

Holmes walked over to Draco. "Draco," he said, and the boy raised a pain-filled face to him. "You have the right to live your life as you see fit. Many sons have monstrous fathers; drunkards, brutes, vicious criminals, even despots and dictators, and none of their sons need follow in their fathers' footsteps. You know, in your heart, what is right, and if you follow your heart you will live your life with honour."

A faint voice came from the couch: "Well said, Holmes. Language, Draco. You are not the first to realise a terrible mistake and seek to rectify it."

Draco slipped off his stool and ran to Severus Snape's side. He knelt by the couch. "Uncle Severus…" He put his head on the Potions Master's shoulder. Holmes glanced over to see Snape's pale hand rest on the boy's blond head.

"Now," said the Headmaster, turning to Snape, "let us see what we can do about this summons."

Snape drew a ragged breath. "I do not think I can go," he said. "Merlin help me if he drags me there; it will kill me."

Holmes perched his thin frame on a stool. "Why can I not go in your stead?" he asked. "We are of the same height and somewhat resemble each other."

Dumbledore looked at him sharply. "I think you may have something there, Mr Holmes," he said. "I can easily disguise you to look like Severus. How is your acting ability?"

For answer, Holmes stood up, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked down over his nose at the headmaster. Snape's deep, oily voice issued from his mouth: "Indeed, Headmaster, I shall consider it a gross insult that you ask me such a dunderheaded question."

"Bravo!" Dumbledore clapped his hands delightedly. "We shall pull it off, shan't we? You understand, Mr Holmes, that this is a most dangerous undertaking?"

Holmes smiled. "I am no stranger to peril, Headmaster. Moreover, I am by nature observant; as a consulting detective, observation is one of my tools. I have observed Master Snape, of course. Carry on!" With that, he stalked across the laboratory, his robe billowing behind him, for all the world like the infamous overgrown bat known as Severus Snape.

A flash of green light and a voice issued from the hearth: "Headmaster, are you there?" Poppy Pomfrey's face was tight with concern.

"Yes, Poppy, what is it?"

"Miss Maura's gone. Miss Granger was asking for her; no-one's seen her since yesterday evening, and the House-Elves say she never returned to the dormitory, nor has she been seen since last night, when Nibby saw her going up to the Astronomy Tower with Jack Claymore." The back of Madam Pomfrey's head was visible as she turned to answer someone's question, then she turned back.

"Sister Brigit thinks she's in trouble; she says she's had dreams of her chained in a dungeon somewhere. Jack's one of the Druid priests, Brigit says he's hardly the one to take a girl to the Astronomy Tower." She turned around again.

Sister Brigit's red-haired head appeared next to Poppy Pomfrey's. "There's trouble. I bespoke Jack – he wasn't at Hogwarts last night at all, and he says there's somethin' unco brewin'. He's comin' to meet with Dame Angharad an' cast the runes."

Holmes hastened to Snape's side. "You mentioned the ability to read someone's thoughts, did you not? Can you read Miss McNicholas' mind, find out where she is?"

"Would that I could. But she is a Muggle, and it doesn't work with them." He considered. "Holmes, it is worth a try, when you are in Voldemort's lair provided you are still alive, of course to see if Miss McNicholas is held there."

Draco stood up. "If I wasn't needed to compound the potion, I'd go with you." He took off his outer robe and rolled up the sleeves of his jumper. "Truth to tell, I sniffed at learning Occlumency, and Voldemort sees through me like a pane of glass."

"No," said Snape. "You are needed here. Madam Pomfrey will draw the blood from the recovered Wizards. Longbottom will assist you, Draco, and Miss Granger as soon as she is able – as will I as soon as I can."

A muffled "Whoosh!" and a flash of powdery green announced the return of Neville Longbottom, carrying his basket of now empty potions phials. "It's working nicely!" he said, putting the basket on the laboratory worktable. "Professor McGonagall's recovered, Madam Pomfrey, Professor Flitwick as well..."

"And Miss Granger?" interrupted Severus Snape, attempting to sit up.

Neville turned to him. "Yes, sir, Miss Granger was the first. She's having a row with Madam Pomfrey just now; she wants to come down here and Madam Pomfrey says over her dead body, and so forth…" He looked at the antique clock on the laboratory wall. "Well, now, it's time for some more of your tonic, Professor Snape," he said.

Snape closed his eyes wearily. "Bring it over," he said. Whilst Neville administered Snape's tonic, Albus Dumbledore sent a House-Elf for Severus Snape's Death Eater robes and mask and a pair of his boots.

Snape made a terrible face, and accepted a goblet of water from Longbottom. "I can sit up a bit more," he said, and Neville propped him with a large cushion. "Holmes, come here. I must school you quickly; this is a role you must play without fault. Can you do it?"

A smirk played about Holmes' lips. "Indeed, my dear Snape, I have played many more complex roles. Tell me about your usual behaviour at the convocations of the Death Eaters, and I shall not only impersonate you, I shall be you as long as the Dark Lord does not require me to do magic."

"No, no, he will not ask you to perform magic. I am more or less inconspicuous at Death Eater meetings, and it is known that I do not participate in Dark Revels." Holmes' eyebrow lifted; he had heard about what took place during Dark Revels, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"These are the Unforgivables; I shall tell you what you must do if he strikes you with any of them," and Snape proceeded to tell Holmes about the effects of Stupefy and Cruciatus, even Avada Kedavra.

"If he thinks he has killed me, I shall hold my breath and slow my pulse," stated Holmes. "During my own Dark years, I lived with the Tanjin monks in Tibet, and learned many useful methods of dominion over the body." They conversed for a few minutes more, then the Headmaster motioned to Holmes to don Snape's robes, mask and boots.

"Well, Headmaster," said Holmes, "I am ready." Albus Dumbledore raised his hands and walked three times around Holmes, chanting incantations. Wandless magic, thought Holmes. He felt his face shifting slightly; his scalp itched, and then, he felt heat and itching on the inside of his forearm. He pushed back the sleeve; there was the Dark Mark, pulsating with a green fluorescence. He put his hand to his head; his hair hung about his neck and felt oily.  
  
Holmes strode over to Snape's couch. "Well? How do I look?" He pulled the robe's hood up over his head. In his hand he held the Death Eater's mask.

Snape grimaced. "Ugly," he said. "By the nineteen minions of Hermes Trismegistus, I have not seen a fouler Death Eater than you."


	31. Chapter 31 The Death Eaters' Convocaton

**Chapter 31 The Death Eaters' Convocation**

"You might as well let me go," Maura panted. Malfoy had Apparated them both back to his Manor, and she was still slightly queasy. Lucius Malfoy's long legs propelled them swiftly down a long corridor, and she was hard pressed to keep up. "At least untie my feet if you're going to run!" Malfoy stopped in front of a heavy door, which swung open at a wave of his hand.

"You embarrassed me in front of Lord Voldemort," he gritted, his face twisted with fury. "You'll be punished, mark my words, girl. I must return to the convocation, but never fear; I will be back and _deal with you!" _He pushed her into the room and the door slammed shut.

One by one, the Death Eaters Apparated into the dank cavern with its central throne. As each appeared, he approached the being on the throne, sank to his knees and did obeisance, and kissed the hem of his robe, then scuttled backwards.

Lucius knelt in front of the Dark Lord and humbly prostrated himself. "I beg pardon, my lord, for the unruly Muggle. She will be disposed of shortly."

Voldemort's flat, reptilian head swivelled in his direction. "See that it is so," he breathed.

"Gather round me, my faithful." Black robes swished; silver masks gleamed in the torchlight as the Death Eaters moved inwards towards the throne.

Malfoy looked around him: Goyle Senior, Rodolphus Lestrange (where was Bellatrix?), Parkinson, Snape and about sixteen others. Not a full coven, but enough to satisfy Lord Voldemort.

"My dears, the time is upon us," hissed the Dark Lord. "Hogwarts is ours. There is no magic left there; we have only to enter and take possession of the Castle. Each of you will ensure that your brethren and close friends are ready. We will strike soon, but," and here his serpent's tongue flicked the air, "I shall call you to come to me. It would not do," he whispered, "to have news of our conquest leak out. Go now, and make all ready."

Snape nodded to Lucius as they walked towards the door. "Severusssss!" Voldemort called him back, and he turned and re-entered the throne chamber.

"My lord?"

"Lucius tells me that you have been working with a Muggle scientist named Holmes. What is that all about?"

Snape took off his mask and looked straight at Voldemort. "It is of little consequence, my lord. We have found a medicine to minimise the symptoms of the influenza, the coughing and fever and so forth. He is only a Muggle; he knows nothing."

"Send him back where he came from. He is not needed; I like it not that he is about, whether he is real or fictitious. Get rid of him."

"My lord, magic does not work on him; I've tried it several times."

"So kill him."

"My lord, he is of little account, he will be returning to his own city shortly."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed to slits. He leaned forward. 'It is always your way to dispute my orders, Severussss. You never learn, foolish boy. _Crucio!" _Snape cried out and fell to the floor, writhing, gasping. Voldemort let him suffer for a while, and then lost interest. "Leave me."

Snape crawled out of the throne room and, holding on to the walls, made his way out of the tunnel that led to Voldemort's lair. He managed to stand up, leaning against a tree. He wrapped his cloak about himself, preparing to Apparate, and bang! The air rushed in where he had stood.

Air rushed out of the anteroom to the laboratory as Holmes, holding on to his Portkey for dear life, appeared in front of Snape, Draco, Neville and the Headmaster.

He dropped the cloak off his shoulders and shook himself. "I could stand a bath and a stiff drink," he remarked.

Snape was sitting up in an armchair, looking somewhat restored. "Well, Holmes? I see you're still with us; how did you fare?"

Holmes looked to Dumbledore. "If you please, Headmaster…"

"Oh, yes, certainly!" The Headmaster passed his hands over Holmes' head, and the bogus Snape was instantly replaced by Sherlock Holmes in his own quite solid flesh.

"It was as you said, he barely acknowledged me, other than to ask me to get rid of myself," Holmes smirked. "He cast Cruciatus upon me, and if I say so, I gave him his curse's worth." The red paste he had smeared on his face and hands to simulate bruises looked all too real. "I secreted a pot of theatrical rouge in my pocket, and managed to apply it whilst I was writhing and screaming."

He looked around. "Voldemort is ready to attack Hogwarts. He will not tell the Death Eaters in advance when the attack is to be; he will notify us when he is ready. I suggest that we prepare without delay."

Dumbledore stood up, stretching his stiff back. "The students and faculty of Hogwarts will be ready for an all-out war. Those who are too weak to participate will be taken to safety. Most of us are who have taken the cure serum have limited magic; we can't cast an Unforgivable, but we can use a variety of other charms. We outnumber the Death Eaters, so there's some hope we can defend ourselves."

"The physically stronger students can wield a staff," stated Snape. "Headmaster, you have Godric Gryffindor's sword; I trust you practise with it now and then." Dumbledore nodded, his eyes twinkling. "Hagrid can crack heads with his bare handsand Filch can throw anything with killing force and hit the target."

The Headmaster chuckled. 'Poppy Pomfrey's all for boiling oil, but will settle for stinging nettle spray. Minerva's Animagus form isn't much use in a hand to hand battle, but as a Witch, she's deadly with a _skean dhu,"_

Holmes paced back and forth in front of the laboratory worktable. "I'm concerned about Miss McNicholas," he said. "I prowled about after I got out of Voldemort's cave, but couldn't find any place where she could have been hidden. I suspect that she's been taken elsewhere." He stopped, turned suddenly. "Lucius Malfoy was a bit late to the convocation, came in mumbling something about a 'damned Muggle." He looked at Snape. "Why would he have taken her?"

"I know why." All eyes turned to Draco Malfoy. He lowered the heat under the cauldron he had been stirring. "He wasn't interested in you, Mr Holmes, when I came running to him with the news that you were working with Uncle Severus."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Continue," he said.

"My father was quite interested in Miss McNicholas. I told him that you (here, he nodded at Holmes) had taken some blood from her." He paused. "My father's an animal," he said quietly. "Mention 'female' and he has to exercise his dominion." He looked up. "My guess is that he took her to the Manor, with the usual amusement in mind, and probably intended to wring some information out of her as well."

Holmes put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "We do not 'guess,' Draco; that is amateurish and will lead you astray. You may deduce, from your father's typical behaviour, that he abducted Miss McNicholas for his own entertainment. Never guess."

"If she's there, she won't be able to get out by herself, "Draco said. He looked at Snape. "You're not well enough to help her."

The Headmaster held up his hand. "It's been rather a while since I've rescued a damsel in distress, but I believe I can give it a go." He turned to Snape and Holmes: "You have been working on a special potion, I believe; one which will turn the virulence of the influenza on its creator."

"Yes," said the Potions Master. "I have worked out the scrip, and it has only to be compounded. " He drew himself up to a straight sitting position. "I believe I am recovered enough to prepare it, with Draco's assistance. We must devise a way to administer it to Voldemort."

A sardonic smile spread over the Great Detective's lips. "You have told me, Snape, that Voldemort will go into battle surrounded by a phalanx of Death Eaters. Excellent! Severus Snape will doubtless be one of those closest to the monster; the Snape that is not affected by Unforgivable curses, that is. "

A similar smile stole over Severus Snape's countenance. "Then there will be two Snapes there, Holmes."

Albus Dumbledore took a handful of Floo powder from the box on the mantel. "Wish me good fortune, all!" he cried, and disappeared in a billow of spark-filled green smoke.

Holmes looked after him. "Imagine, at his age, riding off to rescue a fair lady."

Snape looked askance at him. "And why should age limit him? He's a Wizard; he is about one hundred sixty years old, and according to Minerva, as sprightly as a young goat." He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked sourly at Holmes.

Holmes cocked an eyebrow at the Potions Master. "Indeed, Snape, why should age limit anyone? Where there is a will, there is a way." Holmes rubbed his hands together briskly. "Come, Snape, we have a potion to prepare whilst the Headmaster is off on his knightly errand."


	32. Chapter 32 Faint Heart Never Won Fair L...

_Chapter 32 Faint Heart Never Won Fair Lady_

Maura explored every inch of the room in which Malfoy had imprisoned her. The one lone window was high up, near the ceiling. There was only one door, and that solidly bolted. Maura stomped on the floor, listening for a hollow sound that might indicate a trap-door, but the floor was evidently made of planks laid over stone; it sounded 'dead.' She sat down in the corner, hugging her knees. She was exhausted; she was hungry and dirty and worse than dirty; she could still feel Malfoy's unearthly smooth skin on her body. She shuddered.

_I can't write myself out of here, not really, _she thought. _Maybe I should do it anyway, just to escape this horrible place for a while…. _She heard a faint sound and looked around. It sounded like scratching. _Rats…oh, God…_ Something moved, up in the window.

_Miau! _Maura looked up and barely made out the outline of a feline form. A cat? What was a cat doing looking in the dungeon window? What good was a cat, anyway? As she watched, the cat squeezed itself between the bars of the window and stood poised on the sill, all four feet together. _Stupid cat, it's too far to jump, _she thought.

_Miau! _The cat launched itself off the window sill. Maura held her breath, but the cat landed as lightly as a feather, sat down and began to groom itself. Tears ran down Maura's face. She missed Pumpkin; oh, to have Pumpkin, to hold his solid, warm form, feel his strong purr…

The cat finished its toilette and jumped onto her lap. A velvet paw came up and patted away her tears. Wide amber eyes looked into hers, and she stroked the silky tabby fur. "You're a pretty thing, aren't you? Such beautiful markings, bracelets, eyeliner – you look like you're wearing glasses!" She chucked the cat under the chin. The cat turned its purr motor on to High, and Maura put her arms around its vibrating form and let herself be comforted.

After a while, the cat stood up, jumped off her lap and became Minerva McGonagall. Maura thought she would faint. The witch bent down to her: "How are you, dear? Are you all right?"

Maura burst into tears on McGonagall's shoulder, and the witch smoothed her hair and held her for a few moments. "Yes, well, we shall sort it all out, shan't we? Come on, dear, the Headmaster is waiting." She stood up and held out her hand.

Maura got to her feet. "Where – where, how…."

"Let us be very quiet," said McGonagall. "Look, there he is." Maura followed the witch's pointing finger. A large black raven stood on the window sill, cocking his head to the side. He held something in his beak; he dropped it and McGonagall caught it. Then he flew down and perched on Maura's shoulder, looking at her with his wise, sharp eyes. They twinkled.

McGonagall held a small earthenware bowl. "Put your hand on it, dear," she said, and witch, raven and writer whirled away.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was beginning to resemble an armed camp. The First Year children had been sent to safety at Beauxbatons, where the formidable Madame Maxime would care for them; the older students were busy preparing for the coming battle. Prefects were given the responsibility of battalion leaders. Quarterstaff classes practised in the Great Hall, archers in one of the long corridors. No-one had all of their magic back, but there was enough to cast Leg-lock and similar curses, and to levitate and hurl pieces of furniture. Harry and Ron were in charge of building a ballista, to be mounted in the balcony surrounding the Great Hall. The ballista would hurl buckets of exploding gumballs soaked in Awful Eyeful Grit, which would blind anyone near the explosion.

Professor Flitwick was busy with a group of boys and girls who showed promise in defending themselves against curses; they would deflect Stupefy and other hexes. Since hand to hand combat would not be possible, pairs of students would concentrate on one Death Eater, and do their utmost to disable him before he could injure anyone.

In the dungeon laboratory, Draco was finishing the last batch of curative serum; almost all of the students had been inoculated and were recovering. He took off his dragonhide gloves and stretched his back, then looked over to where Severus Snape and Sherlock Holmes were working on the modified potion that would turn Voldemort's curses back upon himself.

He stirred his cauldron once more and turned off the burner. He was thinking about his experience in the Infirmary. True, he was filled with terror at the thought of disclosing his Dark Mark; true, he hoped that he could fake illness well enough so that he would not have to choose, then and there, between the Death Eaters, including his father, and the rest of his peers, who affiliated themselves with the Light. That fear had made him oversensitive; he had become hysterical when he observed his godfather treating an unknown female with what he thought was preferential attention.

How dare he? His own Head of House and godfather, ignoring him for that Muggle? When he drummed up his courage and asked Snape about it, he had been surprised to learn exactly who 'that Muggle bint' was, and how her courage in taking the vaccine shot and volunteering her blood enabled Snape to develop the serum that saved lives from the influenza.

He was even more astonished when he learned that Snape himself had provided the blood for the magic-restoring qualities of the serum, at great peril to himself. He was astonished and abashed; here he was surrounded by courage, bravery and self-sacrifice, and what was he nattering on about? Whiskey, which he learned was used as an antiseptic and not as a beverage! Well, he had never lost his magic, and he would surely use it in the battle with Voldemort. "_The old reptile will never suspect me,"_ he thought. _"Neither will my father."_

He sniggered to himself. Clever Snape, preparing that disgusting preparation, knowing he wouldn't take it, and thereby he would give himself away! "He had me there," he said to himself. Still, his godfather did not have him altogether to rights; he knew what he knew. He _knew _Snape was soft on Granger, and he would hold on to that information until it suited his purposes to disclose it.


	33. Chapter 33 I Know the Likes O'Him

Chapter 33 I Know the Likes O' Him

Maura held on to Minerva McGonagall's arm tightly. There was certainly something about magickal travel that didn't agree with her! It didn't seem to matter if it was by Apparation or Portkey; she felt nauseous and dizzy. She drew a deep breath.

"Let's get you up to Poppy straightaway," said the witch, looking Maura up and down. "You've been through most of the nine Hells, and Lucius Malfoy..." she made a wry face. "Poppy will know what to do."

"I wish she could erase my memory!" Maura replied. "Professor McGonagall, could we _walk_ to the Infirmary?" Minerva laughed and they left the Great Hall, where the Portkey had deposited them and made for the staircases.

Poppy Pomfrey was waiting for them. "Hecate's hindquarters, girl, you're a fright! Minerva, I'll take her now." She seized Maura's arm and bustled her towards a bed. Sisters Brigit and Agrippina converged on her, and began to strip off her clothes. Brigit's eyebrows drew together and she uttered a stream of Gaelic obscenity on seeing Maura's bruises and scrapes.

Maura giggled; her feisty old aunt Rose had known every curse word in Gaelic and used them fluently and frequently. "I haven't heard that in ages!" she said, as Brigit hurled a particularly virulent imprecation at Lucius Malfoy.

"Och, I know the likes o' him," the Druid said. She pulled off Maura's knickers and threw a sheet over her. "Let us see..." She dove under the sheet, and Maura put her hands over her face.

Sister Brigit emerged from the sheet, her lips compressed into a thin line. "Not much of a man, is he? And he shoots blanks."

Sister Agrippina bent over double, hooting and gasping until she was fairly breathless. "Blanks, oh, hahahahahaha!" Madam Pomfrey hastened over.

"What's this, then, Brigit?" She saw Agrippina trying to contain herself, and the wry smile on Brigit's face. "Oh," she said. Maura was still trying to process the information: _he shoots blanks... _"You don't have to worry, my dear. Mr Malfoy is, erm, sexually dysfunctional; he left nothing of himself within you."

Maura sat up. "All that, and he can't – he doesn't --- "It wasn't funny; it was disgusting, and pitiful. "I'm not surprised," she stated. "Big braggarts aren't often great performers."

"Come, Miss McNicholas. Let's get you into a nice bath," said Madam Pomfrey, and she and Sister Brigit led Maura away behind a screen where a huge claw footed bathtub, filled to the brim with rosemary-scented water, awaited her.

Hermione placed the vase of flowers on Maura's bedside table, rearranged a few blossoms, and then sat herself down cosily on the edge of the bed.

"Quite a turnabout!" she said, helping herself to one of Maura's Chocolate Frogs. "The last time you were in the Infirmary, it was I in the bed and you visiting me!"

"I'm going to be just fine," said Maura, hitching herself up on her pillows. "Madam Pomfrey insisted that I stay overnight. She put some kind of charm on me "to get rid of any unwelcome beasties." She chuckled. "You've not heard my tale, Hermione. Are you sure you're up for it?"

Hermione laughed. "Well, starting from the end, you were rescued by the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall in their Animagus shapes, and that's quite something! Now, tell me what really happened, and don't leave out one sordid detail!" She pulled the curtain around Maura's bed.

Madam Pomfrey paused in her inventory of the linen-closet. Peals of laughter rang from behind the curtain around Maura McNicholas' bed, punctuated now and then by a snort, a loud "Ewwww!" "Cor!" and finally a soprano shriek duet that set everyone's teeth on edge.

"Agrippina! Would you please tell that lot to shut it? Sick Wizards and Witches need their rest, and those two harpies are disturbing them!" Sister Agrippina quickly went over and drew the curtain open. Hermione Granger, still in her dressing-gown and slippers, for she had not yet been discharged, lay on her back across Maura's feet, hiccupping helplessly. Maura leaned over sideways, trying to reach her water pitcher. She had the hiccups as well.

"Look at ye! Hysterical it is, eh?" Sister Agrippina poured cups of water for both girls, fussed them both into proper sitting positions, and put her hand at the back of Maura's neck. "No fever, at any rate." She leaned over: "Ain't it daft, gels, how them what don't have it brag about it, and them what has it don't have to say a word!" She winked. "I don't fancy blonds anyway." She took Hermione's hand. "Time for ye to get dressed and go about yer business, Miss Granger. They'll be wantin' ye to help downstairs. Himself said as soon as ye're fit, I should send ye down to the laboratory."

"Oh, thank you!" Hermione hugged Sister Agrippina, called over her shoulder, "I'll be back to see you, Maura," and went to dress.

Maura sat on the edge of her bed and swung her feet over the side experimentally. No dizziness; that was good. People always said that was what you should do after being in bed for quite a long time. _What now? There's a battle brewing, and I really don't think I can be of any help. It's time for me to go home, and if they need me, Hermione and the Headmaster know how to find me. _She looked around at the tidy Infirmary. There were only a few patients left, and they were getting ready to be discharged. She leaned back against her pillows, and thought about Hogwarts.

Ron and Harry had told her about so many things – the amazing Sorting Hat ceremony, the feasts at Samhain and Yule, the Leaving Feast at the end of the school year, and the close friendships amongst the students made Hogwarts seem like Heaven.

_I'm a little old for all that,_ Maura thought to herself. They're all eighteen or so – I'm twenty-seven, done with college, been on my own for quite a long time. But Hogwarts was magical; it was sanctuary and fantasy kingdom and fairytale domain all together, and now it was about to embark on a war that could end the magic castle's days forever. _I know Hogwarts will live forever in the words Mrs. Rowling wrote, but there's so much she doesn't, couldn't know! I love it here, I've come to know and love the people, but it's time for me to go home. I'll just have to wait for the next book._

****

Rubeus Hagrid carried a large armful of quarterstaffs into the Great Hall, handed them to the Ravenclaw prefect who was acting arms-master, and made his way down into the dungeons. He needed to talk to Severus Snape. Of all the masters, Severus was the worst-tempered, least-liked and one of the strangest, but there was a bond between the Potions Master and the half-giant, two men who were 'different' and had suffered because of the difference.

Hagrid could not forget the beautiful ghost with the strawberry blonde hair. He had an awful feeling that her appearance boded ill for the coming battle; ghosts other than their own Hogwarts resident spectres were just _not seen_ in the countryside! Was she someone who the Death Eaters had murdered? He recalled that when a Death Eater took a life, there wasn't enough left to the poor thing to even _raise_ a ghost, little say one that moved! He rapped on the laboratory door.

"Enter!" He pushed open the door. Severus Snape and Sherlock Holmes were putting stoppers into blue bottles of potion. Neville Longbottom and Draco Malfoy were re-stocking chemicals and herbs back onto their shelves. Two House-elves scrubbed cauldrons at the huge sink.

"It looks like yeh finished yer work, sirs!" Hagrid boomed.

Snape turned around, a phial in his hand. "Yes, Hagrid, for the time being we are done. We have accomplished our task, that is, _this _task. There is much to do; the call to the Death Eaters could come at any time. Come, we are all expected in the Great Hall for a briefing by the Headmaster."

"Erm, can I talk to yeh for just a minute before yeh go, Severus? It's important or I wouldn't bother yeh."

Holmes put his jacket on. "Shall I give you your privacy, Hagrid?"

"Oh, no, sir, it don't matter, as a matter o'fact, yeh might know owt about it, what I seen, that is." He sat himself down ponderously on a stool, which creaked under his weight.

"Well, Hagrid? What is it?" Severus Snape's brows beetled; he was impatient to attend the briefing, but he realised that the half-giant would never approach him with something unimportant.

Hagrid twisted the edge of his tunic in his huge hands. "I seen a ghost," he said. "Oh, not in the castle, but out by the lake. Me an' Fang were walkin' and I thought I seen summat on a flat rock by the East side, you know the place, Severus? Near where the lilies grow?"

"Have done with the expostulation, Hagrid!" Snape exploded. "What kind of a ghost?"

"At first I thought 'twas a Muggle lad, packin' things into a rucksack. Then I realised it was a _girl_, a very, very pretty girl, with long blonde hair all floatin' down, but she was wearin' Muggle men's trousers an' coat, with a man's cap, an'—"

"Just a minute!" cried Holmes. "Do you mean to tell me that you saw what you thought was a young man, but it turned out to be a young woman?"

Hagrid looked at Holmes as if he was daft. "Yes, o' course, it's what I said, you. Then she saw me, and she was goin' to say something – and then she disappeared."

Holmes dropped his face into his hands. When he looked up there were two red spots on his cheekbones, and he looked – sheepish.

Snape looked at him. "Holmes? Are you all right, man? What is it – do you know what he's going on about? A young woman dressed in a man's clothes? Did she show any wounds, or signs that she had been murdered?"

"No, there wouldn't be," said Holmes. "She certainly was not murdered. The borders between worlds are thin here, as I have found out. It is most likely that she saw you, Hagrid, as you saw her, for a moment, and then the world-borders shifted and you were gone. No, she's very much alive."

"But who –"

Holmes' eyebrows rose, he shrugged and threw his hands in the air. "It's Russell, of course. God help me."


	34. Chapter 34 Hail to Thee, Blithe Spirit

Chapter 34 Hail to Thee, Blithe Spirit

Sherlock Holmes stood up, put his coat on and patted his pockets in yet another vain search for a pipe that had been missing since he woke on the moor. "It's Russell, without a doubt," he stated. "She must have been concerned enough about my prolonged absence that she came up to Ayrshire, and somehow made her way to the lake."

Snape opened the door. "Let us discuss your unruly intern after the briefing, Holmes. Come on!" He strode out into the corridor, Holmes and Hagrid after him. Then, he remembered the others in the laboratory, stuck his head within, and shouted, "Longbottom! Malfoy! You can finish the washing-up later, come to the briefing!"

Sherlock Holmes listened intently to the Headmaster's explanation of the procedures to be followed in the event of an attack by Voldemort and the Death Eaters. The students had been given their posts; prefects and teachers were in charge of mustering their 'troops' and weapons were cached in several locations. Then, Albus Dumbledore began a long-winded exhortation of courage and responsibility, and Holmes' attention wavered. '_Russell'._ She had somehow come to find him; why? Did she not trust him? In truth, he had caught Hell from her any number of times when he had been unavoidably detained and had missed meeting her at appointed times. '_She thinks that I am a poor planner, that I am not trustworthy'_ he had often thought to himself. '_She rails at me that had I thought everything through properly, I would not have been delayed.'_ Patiently, he had explained time and again that a consulting detective was often at the mercy of events as well as people. '_She expects me to be perfect.'_

Indeed, Russell was obsessed with perfection. It made her perfectly suited to her Hebrew and Greek studies; she could split a hair sixteen ways, make a hundred angels dance on the head of a pin and argue him into the ground on the tiniest detail. It also made her completely trustworthy and thorough.

_'This is the first time she's come in search of me. Why?'_ He couldn't understand it; surely she had enough to keep her busy at term's end, and afterwards, at the farm. '_Surely she couldn't know…' _He straightened up, realised that the briefing was at an end, and filed out of the Great Hall with everyone else. He continued to walk out onto the green lawn in front of the castle's double doors, and found himself a bench under a large elm tree. He sat down and stretched his legs out.

_'Stop being such an ass, man,' _he scolded himself. '_Russell couldn't know about your, erm, dalliance with Miss McDiarmaidh. It is none of her business, in any case.' _He looked up, distracted by a rustle in the wide green leaves above his head. '_Pock!'_A green acorn dropped painfully on his head, and a fluffy-tailed grey squirrel chattered at him before disappearing into the branches.

Guilt rose up in him like an unwelcome wave of heart-burn, but even more painful. '_I have desired Russell for the longest time, I must _not _want her, but God help me, I do, more with each passing day. She has grown into the most beauteous, most challenging and most exciting female I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. She does not deserve a foul-tempered, decrepit old swot such as I. And yet, who could match her? Who is equal to her? Indeed, who could put up with her but me?'_

_'Very well, then, why did I knowingly, freely and enthusiastically embrace another woman, when it was Russell I wanted?' _He smote his head with the heels of his hands; this was a fruitless argument. Indeed, it was the classic situation: a devil perched on one of his shoulders, an angel on the other, and between them, Sherlock Holmes feared he would go mad.

Angel: Russell is a child, Holmes! She is barely eighteen years old; she is thirty-nine years your junior. You could easily be her father. She has barely begun to make the world's acquaintance. When she reaches her majority, she will marry a man of her own age and you will never see her again. You cannot regain your lost youth in her. Do not embarrass yourself.

Devil: Russell is a beautiful woman. She is a ripe peach, dripping with sweetness, ready to be plucked. You know full well, Holmes, that during your trip to Palestine, when you shared a tent, she curled against your side, warm and soft, waiting for your touch. You have danced a few steps of the male-female dance with her, and she responded eagerly to your lead. Why would you not want her? You are not too old for the flesh!

Angel: Far be it from you, Holmes, to violate virgins and despoil maiden children! You must divest yourself of these unsavoury thoughts. You are Russell's teacher, mentor and surrogate father. Nothing else; all else is incest, it is heinous license. You should be ashamed of yourself for even considering her as the means to slake your lust!

Devil: Far be it from you, Holmes, to deny yourself the pleasures of the flesh! You are a gourmet; you have taught her how to understand and enjoy fine food. You are a lover of the arts; you have introduced her to music and dance and the best that the theatres and museums have to offer. Why would you, therefore, not introduce her to the reason men and women exist? You have considerable experience, and would surely accustom her in short order to the ecstasy of romance.

Abruptly, Holmes rose, his hands clapped to his ears. "Enough! Enough!" he cried. "Have done with your battle for my soul!" Rubeus Hagrid, passing by, looked at him strangely and approached him, a concerned look on his bearded face.

"Are yeh all right, Mr Holmes? I heard yeh talkin' to yerself; have yeh been seein' ghosts too?"

Holmes grimaced. "Thanks for your concern, Hagrid; I am quite well. I do engage in debate with myself now and then."

Hagrid looked at him, his beetle-black eyes round. "Now that's summat I never heard afore! But, Mr Holmes, if yeh debate with yerself – who wins?"

_'Sometimes the simplest answers are the best', _thought Holmes. "Come, Hagrid. Show me the place where you viewed your fair phantasm." Together, man and half-giant walked towards the lake, sparkling in the afternoon sun. In the deep waters of the middle of the lake, a pink tentacle waved, splashed about and then sank out of sight. Hagrid whistled, and Fang bounded to his side, tongue lolling in doggy delight.

They approached the water-lily garden. Large round green pads bobbed side by side, dotted with pink, yellow and white blossoms. A frog sang. "Over there, Mr Holmes," said Hagrid, indicating a large flat stone next to a tiny shingle beach. "The students likes to picnic there now an' then."

Fang trotted to the stone, sniffed all around it, thoroughly watered some nearby weeds, and then flopped down, front paws crossed. Holmes walked up to the stone and around it, and then climbed upon it. "Hagrid, there's a splendid view of the Castle's towers from here," he observed.

"Yes, indeed," Hagrid agreed. "'Twas right there, where ye're standin', Mr Holmes, that she was sittin' when I seen her. Come round this way, then, where I am, and ye'll have me view o'the rock."

Holmes climbed down and walked round to stand next to Hagrid. It might have been a trick of the light, or even a reflection from the lake, but for a moment he thought he saw '_something' _on the rock. He blinked; it was gone. "Hagrid, did you see anything?"

"No, Mr Holmes, I was lookin' for Fang, sorry," the half-giant said. He stared at the rock. "_There!' _She's there, Mr Holmes, on the rock – where I seen her before! She's sayin' summat – I can't hear her!"

Holmes squinted his eyes – no, it was merely a reflection. He sighed. "Hagrid, it seems that your lovely spectre is yours alone. I cannot see her. Let us return to the castle."

Mary stowed the last of her belongings in her rucksack. She almost fled the pleasant site a while ago, when she was convinced she was hallucinating. Then, reality established itself firmly, and she finished her luncheon, then took off her shoes and stockings and waded in the chilly lake water just for a lark. She found a smooth round stone and sent it skipping briskly across the surface of the lake. Then, she skipped another – was that a fish that batted the stone off its course? She had never seen such a colour; it resembled a pink eel. Well, one never knew in Scotland.

She returned to the rock and put on her stockings and shoes. She took one last look around: no towers this time – _but he was back, the huge man and the dog—and next to him – no, it could not be! _"Holmes!" she shouted. "Holmes, don't you dare disappear!" But alas, he did, and big man, dog and detective were nowhere to be seen when she blinked. Mary shouldered her rucksack, picked up her walking-stick, consulted her map, and set off. "_I am over-tired', she thought. 'I will return to the inn, have a bath and an early dinner and a good night's rest. Tomorrow is another day."_

Holmes looked round at the great lawn that stretched down to the lake shore. It was empty; all of the students were within, preparing for the fight of their lives. He opened one of the great double doors and entered the Castle. Unbidden, a verse came to him:

"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be;

The last of life, for which the first was made…"

A wry smile touched the lips of the Great Detective. _"I cannot say that exceeding peace has made me bold, but I have lived long and experienced much. It may be that the last of my life, if indeed it is for which the first was made, may hold some surprises."_

He walked into the Great Hall, and stopped in his tracks: in the middle of the room, which had been cleared of tables and furniture, Severus Snape was instructing a Seventh Year prefect in the use of the quarterstaff. The Potions Master moved with silken grace, his tall, lean frame agile and powerful. The heavy quarterstaff whirled and shifted in his hands; _clack-clack-clack-clackety-clack,_ as he duelled with the young man.

_Amazing,_ thought Holmes. _I would hardly have thought him recovered enough to fight, but he is in fine fettle. _Holmes recalled that Snape was not yet forty years old, barely entering his prime if what he had heard about Wizarding life-spans was true. _The Wizard was in love with his brilliant intern, Miss Granger, who was slightly less than half his age and more than his equal in intelligence, wit and passionate dedication to what she believed. Like Russell._

Somehow, Holmes could envision Snape and Miss Granger as a couple. There would be periodic fireworks, no doubt. _Still, he loves her dearly, and she will no longer be his student before long._ Why, he pondered, could he see their alliance, and yet see none of his own with Russell? Could it be because he had absolutely no knowledge of how she felt about _him? _He walked slowly over to the staircases. He was lying to himself; he often envisioned himself and Russell as a married couple. Mostly, he thought of her when he lay himself down to sleep. He did not have the courage to exercise his fantasy when he was actually in her presence. "What a coward you are, Holmes," he chided himself.

"Holmes!" He stopped and turned to see the Potions Master hastening after him. "Where have you been? You should learn to handle a quarterstaff, man; that may be all you have with which to defend your life!"

Holmes looked sourly at the Wizard. "I have studied several Eastern disciplines of self-defence, and I assure you, Snape, I am more than equal to any non-magickal attacks that may come my way."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "You don't say! And this, erm, "study" equips you to fight?"

"Indeed. Come at me." Holmes stood, relaxed, his weight on one leg, his arms crossed over his chest, his head tipped to one side, and a most irritating smirk on his countenance.

"I've been longing to do this since I met you!" Snape charged at the detective, fury in his face and his fists balled up, and shortly found himself knocked out of his wind, flat on his back with Holmes' booted foot on his neck.

"What – what- " Holmes assisted Snape to his feet, and the Potions Master peevishly shook off his hands. "That was a lucky guess, Holmes." As soon as he stood upright, he pivoted and dove at Homes' throat with both hands out, only to have the Great Detective step smartly out of his way. Snape made an inelegant three point landing and slid across the polished floor on his belly, fetching up in front of the staid black oxfords and red and white striped stockings of Minerva McGonagall. Holmes recalled that his first introduction to Snape had been in the same undignified position.

McGonagall shrieked and held up her skirts, stepping back. "Severus! Get up from that floor this moment!"

Mortified, Snape rose and dusted off the front of his robes. "Minerva, I –"

"Oh, get along with you; you act like two rutting stags!" The Witch looked sharply at both men. "It is more important for you to work together than to continue this contest of wills you both seem to enjoy." She clapped her pointed hat on her head, turned her back on man and Wizard, and trotted off, a small black and grey striped tabby, her tail held high in disdain.


	35. Chapter 35 Cherish the Ladies

**Chapter 35 Cherish the Ladies**

Mary Russell turned her back on the lake and marched away with all deliberate speed, never once stopping to look back until she had gone at least a kilometre. Then, she sat down with her back to a tree and put her head in her hands.

"_I must put this all together_," she thought. _"Holmes has been gone for several weeks and no-one has heard from him, nor received any news of him after he left Edinburgh. I came to that place all unawares, and the hallucinations began straightaway. First, there was the illusion of a castle's towers; then the huge man and his equally huge dog. There was that pink eel, as well....then, the giant and dog returned, and with them, Holmes!_

_I know I am not going mad; I should have done years ago, when I first met Sherlock Holmes. Therefore, trusting my own sanity, I must conclude that what I saw has some basis in fact. It was foolish of me to run away. I must return to the lake and triangulate the position of the castle, if indeed it is there, as well as determining the coordinates of the site. Then, I must speak with local people; perhaps there is a history of odd appearances..."_

Comforted as always by action and reason, Mary got to her feet, noted the position of the sun, and turned about, determined to return to the lake.

"_Why am I doing this? Why did I come to Scotland in the first place? I am not Sherlock Holmes' wife, seeking my errant husband!_" A sharp pain seized her spirit, and she clenched her jaw. Why, indeed? Why did she feel bereft whenever he went away? Why did she feel complete in his company, as her soul nestled companionably against his? _I shall not dissolve into tears, _Mary vowed, but her lips trembled. "_Damn him, I love him! I have always loved him! Surely he must know it by now, and has studiously ignored the idea. He must think me ridiculous." _Tears slid slowly down her cheeks, and she brushed them away impatiently with her sleeve.

'_What, indeed, would my life be like if we were married?' _She dug in her pocket, found her handkerchief, and with a great honking and snorting, worked the stuffiness out of her nose._ 'I daresay my life would be the same as it is now, for we are both creatures of habit and accustomed to our own ways. The only difference would be...'_ In truth, the only difference would be that in addition to being partners, student and teacher, comrades and friends, they would be man and woman, with all that that implied.

"_He will never marry," _Russell thought. _"He would have done so years ago; if the fact of his 'lovely lost son' did nor induce him to wed and legitimise that son's birth, then nothing can. He is in his full health; I am sure there have been many women in his life, women to be enjoyed and then cast aside." _She bit her lip. _"How many times has he disappeared from my sight because he had an assignation with a woman? What about all those mysterious weekends spent in unknown locations, in other cities? Can I be so foolish as to think he was 'all work and no play'?"_

Abruptly, she stopped walking and sat down on a low stone wall. _"I am acting like a petulant child," _she said to herself severely. _"I am not of an age to be contemplating marriage, barely nineteen and still in school, not yet reached my majority. Holmes would never entertain such a foolish idea: marrying a girl a bare third of his age! He has, I am sure, known many sophisticated, elegant, glamorous women of his own generation; why consider a green girl?"_

But her heart would not listen. She might logic herself into a stupor; might ignore the likelihood that in Holmes she saw her beloved father's image; might even argue that no-one knew her brain, her spirit and her heart better than Holmes, and therefore no-one else would suit her as a husband. Her heart simply stated the truth: _she loved Sherlock Holmes with every fibre of her being._

Hermione Granger tried to edge Crookshanks over a bit so that she might settle more comfortably in her squashy armchair, but the fat orange cat pushed back against her, refusing to budge. Sighing, she squeezed in next to him, against his warm, furry side. He looked up at her, squinting his amber eyes: _"Mrah?"_

"Oh, Crooks, everything is falling apart," she said, playing with his fur. _"I'm _falling apart. Where did I go wrong? How in the name of Medusa's bad hair days did I get fixated on the worst, most awful, most obnoxious man in the Wizarding World?" There was no doubt that _something _drew her to the Potions Master of Hogwarts, and it had been drawing her for years.

"I should find a psychiatrist," she mused. "It's not healthy to fall in love with someone who treats one abominably. Suppose I read it in a textbook: "_Young, intelligent and healthy woman is inexplicably drawn to a man who does nothing but revile her, insult her, criticise her harshly and call her a stupid little girl."_ I should conclude that the young, intelligent and healthy woman had an inferiority complex, an undeveloped sense of self, and that she was, at the least, a ninny."

"I am emphatically NOT a ninny! I am at the top of my form, which I might say I achieved through dint of much hard work! I was clever enough to suggest to the Headmaster that he bring Sherlock Holmes to Hogwarts, and clever enough to find a way to do it! No-one else could!" She stopped, feeling foolish. She knew what she knew, and that was a racketing great amount! No-one could take that away from her, no matter who they were or what they said.

So, why did it hurt so much when Severus Snape looked down his beak at her, sneered and called her a stupid little girl? He could be so contradictory, and that was another problem. Was it barely a week ago when they were sitting in his office and he came over and sat next to her on the settee, took her hand and kissed it softly, setting her insides fluttering and her heart pounding? She recalled putting her other hand on his shoulder, ready to pull him closer and kiss him on the mouth. He did not resist her; his burning dark-chocolate eyes were intent on her face, and for once he was not scowling. He looked...._receptive._ Then, she lost her nerve. _Suppose I had kissed him?_ Her insides fluttered at the thought.

Most of her female schoolmates spent untold hours giggling amongst themselves, talking about snogging at the least and 'going all the way' at the most. Hermione made a point to get up and leave when they got into those salacious discussions, stating that she 'had more important things to do.' Lavender Brown, in an uncharacteristic fit of concern, had cornered her one day and asked her baldly: "Don't you fancy boys? Or is it girls?" Hermione laughed at that and told Lavender that she did fancy boys, but she didn't have any time for them, not when there were NEWTs to ace and extra credit to be garnered.

There was no doubt that sex was in the air. Rampaging testosterone was evident in sprouting beards, broadening chests and deepening voices amongst the male students from the ages of fourteen on. Girls stumbled back into their dormitories after forbidden assignations, their faces flushed, their eyes glittering. Hermione was, if truth be told, dying of curiosity, but she would be damned if she would ask anyone! The Library wasn't much help other than providing some rather clinical and unpleasant basic knowledge, and the trashy romance novels some of her chums read were, well, fiction.

_I know what I feel like when I have been close to him,_ she thought. My insides tremble and flutter, my heart pounds. I want him to touch me, to hold me. The very idea made her insides jump. _But I'm a student! He would never, ever come near me!_ '_You won't be a student forever,' _her resident little voice piped. '_Only the rest of this year and then you will be graduated.'_ As a matter of fact, if she took her NEWTs early she would leave her student days behind even sooner! And, she recalled, her excursions with a Time-Turner granted her even more maturity. Surely Snape was aware that she was no longer a child!

How foolish! Severus Snape didn't like anybody, little say _love _anyone and that was what she wanted, wasn't it? Didn't she want Severus Snape to love her, to want her as she wanted him? '_Miserable misogynist,' _she thought. '_I am doomed to love in vain.'_


	36. Chapter 36 Two Snapes

**Chapter 36 Two Snapes**

A/N: Special thanks and praise to Derron Comes Ripping, who provided the Gaelic translations in this chapter.

"It's too quiet. I don't like it, Albus." Minerva McGonagall sat rigidly upright on her chair, her hands clenched in her lap.

The Headmaster rose from behind his desk and came around to sit on a chair facing his Deputy. "Minerva, we'll have warning. Severus' Dark Mark will alert him that Voldemort is ready to begin his attack, and we'll be able to get everyone into position."

The witch reached out and clasped his hands in hers. "We will have only a few moments, Albus. Once the Death Eaters have assembled, they'll Apparate as close to the castle as they can, and swarm over us like poisonous wasps. I know we've done all we can, but are we truly ready to face them?"

"We will have to be ready, won't we?" He sighed. "We've done everything; even alerted the Ministry that they must come directly we call them. Severus has the potion ready; Holmes and he are prepared to strike."

"You know the prophecy. Harry Potter is to be the one who kills Voldemort; and yet we assume that what Holmes and Severus have in mind will work. You know Potter; he has an odd way of popping up in unexpected places, and if we succeed, I shouldn't be surprised if Potter has something to do with it."

She stood up and smoothed her robes, and the Headmaster stood with her. "Albus, we've faced so many trials together. I pray that we survive this one." She held out her arms, and they clasped each other tightly, old fighting comrades, old colleagues, old lovers for countless years.

"We'll win, my dear. We will win."

Sherlock Holmes slouched down in his chair, his feet propped on a small table, and steepled his fingers. "Can't you leave off pacing for a bit?" he asked plaintively.

Severus Snape's tall, thin figure had been stalking back and forth, back and forth, for over an hour. Everything was in readiness; Snape's robes and mask hung from a clothes-tree. He stood still.

"Where is the potion?"

"I have it here, "replied Holmes, indicating a glass tube with a cork stopper. In it, a cloudy liquid swirled with iridescent streaks. "I must charge the hypodermic and secure it so that it does not prick me. The needle must be covered until I am ready to use it."

Snape nodded. "I shall fetch you a set of Death Eater robes." With that, he left, and went into his private quarters.

"Thanks, Snape," said the detective, and took the robes from the man's arms. In a moment, he had donned them, put the cloak hood over his head and taken the silver mask in his hand. "How do I look?"

Snape regarded him. "Hideous. It is like looking in the mirror." There was a small mirror on the wall, and both men stood side by side in front of it.

"Egad, Snape, I have never been a beauty, but I did not realise how truly ugly I am," said Holmes. He smirked at Snape. "Nor did I realise I had an equally ugly twin brother." He turned to the workbench and carefully charged the hypodermic syringe with the potion, then secured a small metal cap over the needle's point. He wrapped the apparatus in a cloth and tucked it carefully into the pocket of his robe. "Let us go up to the Great Hall; it will save us time when the summons comes."

Together, the Potions Master and the Great Detective left the laboratory and made their way upstairs. As the entered the Great Hall, three figures froze: Harry and Ron put their arms protectively around Hermione. _Two_ Snapes?

"One of them's Mr Holmes," said Hermione. "I have no idea which is which."

One of the black robed figures approached the three. From behind the mask, came the muffled voice of Severus Snape: "Remember your positions. Do not do anything foolhardy, and that, Miss Granger, includes gratuitous acts of Gryffindor bravery."

"We won't, sir," said Ron. "We know what we have to do." With that, he and Harry ran up to the gallery, where two sixth-years were minding the siege engine and its ammunition bucket filled with Awful Eyeful pellets.

Hermione put her hand on Snape's arm. "Whatever happens," she said in a small, quiet voice, "I will be with you." Her large brown eyes caught Snape's black orbs and held them.

He put his hand over hers. "I will return to you," he promised. "Stay safe." Hermione turned and quickly walked over to stand next to Maura McNicholas at an improvised medical station.

Maura wiped her brow with her handkerchief, noting the sweat and dirt on the linen. She'd worked side by side with her friends, preparing the Great Hall for the impending battle, practicing what she remembered of her Tae Kwon Do, learning to handle a quarterstaff. "I've never been in a fight, Hermione," she said. "I hope I don't make a mess of it."

Hermione grimaced. "We'll do the best we can. I, personally, would like the opportunity to punch one of them on the nose or crack his skull with a quarterstaff."

"Well," said Maura, "wouldn't I love to kick Malfoy in the balls? Not that it would make much difference, in his case!" The two girls collapsed into each other's arms, laughing. The impending presence of the Headmaster caused them to straighten up and try to stifle their giggles.

"Miss McNicholas," said Albus Dumbledore, "your help has allowed us to battle the influenza and return to health, and, I might say, were it not for you; we should not have the assistance of Sherlock Holmes." He put his arm fondly around her shoulders. "I wish you could remain with us; I think you would be an admirable Professor of Muggle Studies, at the very least. But it's time you returned home, my dear. It isn't safe for you to remain here; we will be engaged in a fierce battle shortly."

"Headmaster, there has to be something I can do!" Maura had been through some of the worst days of her life, and now she was to be faced with another worst day: Headmaster Dumbledore was making arrangements to get her out of Hogwarts with all possible speed.

"And what about Hermione? She's still too weak to fight! And Holmes? He's still here; he'll have to go back too..." She shook her head. She was too tired to argue any more. All she wanted to do was to climb into her four-poster bed with Crookshanks and go to sleep,

The aged wizard took her hand. "I know you're worried about Miss Granger, my dear,"he said. "I am confident that she has been restored to full health. You must be away from here before the battle begins." He looked at her seriously, no twinkle now in the blue eyes. "If Voldemort were to catch you, he would attempt to use you for his evil purposes. For your own sake, and for ours, you must be out of harm's way." His grandfatherly hand pulled her close, and she rested her forehead against his white beard.

"I don't want to go," she whispered. The truth poured out: "I could be happy here forever. I've come to know and love everyone, they're my family now."

Dumbledore patted her head. "Do you remember the story, 'The Wizard of Oz,' by Mr Frank Baum?" he asked. "The heroine, Dorothy, says the same thing you have just said to me, to the good witch Glinda. I will say to you, then, what Glinda said to her: 'There's no place like home.'"

Maura hugged the old man. "I'll miss you terribly," she said. "I'll miss Hermione and Professor McGonagall, and Madam Pomfrey, and Brigit, and even Snape, and of course the students." She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I'm glad I was able to help." She thought a minute. "It's still our secret, isn't it, how Sherlock Holmes came to Hogwarts?"

"Yes, indeed. Those who know are trustworthy. I had hoped to give Mr Holmes a proper sendoff, you know. I wanted to confer an honorary professorship on him, and have a banquet in his honour, with a staff photograph and all. It's a pity there isn't time."

Maura clasped Dumbledore's hand. 'There's no time for proper good-byes, but you never know what the future holds, Headmaster." She smiled. "I might just write myself back to Hogwarts!"

Dumbledore took her down the spiral staircase and around to the side door of the castle, where a plain black car waited. Whinny trotted up with her Rollaboard. The house-elf hugged Moira's knees. "Have a good trip home, Miss Maura," she said.

Maura turned to Dumbledore: "Please! Let me just say goodbye to Hermione. I won't be but a minute."

Dumbledore sighed. "Very well, but please be quick. Voldemort may strike at any moment. "

Hermione put her arm around Maura. "We don't have much time. We're just waiting for Professor Snape to tell us that he's been Summoned. You've got to get out of here!"

Maura took her friend's hand. 'Hermione, I can't believe I'm leaving you and everyone else here, and not fighting at your side! We've been through a lot together, and I'm not great at saying goodbye to good friends."

Hermione's brown eyes smiled. "Have a good trip home, Maura," she said. "Don't worry about me – or Mr. Holmes. The Headmaster will make sure he gets home safely." She held out her arms, and the two young women hugged each other fiercely.

A sudden commotion caused them to look towards the side of the Hall: Severus Snape was bent double, with Holmes supporing him. "His Dark Mark has just begun to burn!" Holmes stated. "He has to leave; our count-down begins now!" Holmes helped Snape to walk to the doors of the castle. The Potions Master straightened up, took the mask from his face and looked at Hermione Granger. "I shall return to you," he mouthed, then clapped the mask back in place. A loud "Bang!" and the air rushed in where he had stood.

Students were running everywhere. The larger ones were carrying quarterstaffs; some had clubs. The smaller and younger ones had flasks of what was probably itching potion. Neville towed her to the side door, and then wheeled, blanching. Through the glass doors, he could see an approaching group of black-robed Death Eaters.

"Neville! Take Miss McNicholas down to her car, it's waiting by the kitchen!" Hermione gave Maura one last hug, then pushed her into the hands of Neville Longbottom.

"This way!" he puffed, leading her down two sets of staircases to the kitchens. The black car waited outside the kitchen door.

Finbar had already started the engine of the car. Jack looked around, and shouted into the driver's window. **"**_Mothaím láithreacht an Tiarna Dhuibh gar dúinn. Ní mór dúinn í a thabhairt amach as an áit seo._**"** "I feel the Dark Lord's presence near; we must take her out of here."

"_Cuirfidh ár láithreacht trí chéile é. Ní mór dúinn í a choinneáil in aice linn," _answered Finbar. "Our presence will confound him. We must keep her close to us."

Jack jumped into the passenger seat, and Finbar backed up the car as close to the door as he could._ "Beidh sí againn faoi cheann cúpla nóiméad. Neart dúit!" _Jack strained out of the window, hoping to see Maura approaching the car. "We'll have her in a few minutes. Strength to you!"

_"__Neart duitse freisin. Deimhneoidh mé an chosaint ar an gcarr," _Finbar replied. "Strength to you as well. I'll check the wards on the car." He closed his eyes for a moment and held both his hands up, palms facing. "It's well." He looked around; "Here she comes."

The back door of the car opened, Maura half-fell inside, and the door slammed. The car took off – literally, rising above the surface of the road. _And it's not even a Ford Anglia,_ she thought, belting herself in securely. The car circled the castle and then gained altitude, flying into a fluffy white cloud.

Jack turned around. _Oh, if you give me that lopsided smile I'll have to kill you, _she thought, but his face was serious. "We'll be at the airport shortly," he said. "You're safe, Miss Maura."

She must have dozed in the car. When she awoke, Jack was shaking her shoulder. "We've arrived, Miss Maura." Finbar got out of the car and shook her hand. "Safe journey, Miss Maura. Blessed be," he told her, and laid his hand on her forehead. He called something in Gaelic to Jack and got back into the car.

Jack hurried Maura through check-in procedures and even went through Security with her. He brought her to her gate as the passengers began to board the aircraft. She looked at him: no trace of the two-faced Death Eater who had given her such a terrible time, just a plain, high-cheekboned Irish face with bright blue eyes and short dark brown hair. He pressed a paper sack into her hand: "Brigit and Dame Angharad sent ye some good things to eat on the plane, "he said. Then he leaned forward and kissed her, a gentle, sweet kiss, whispered, "Blessed be," and sent her down the Jetway.

Maura settled herself in her seat. The plane was far from full; I_ can lift up the armrests and stretch out if I want to,_ Maura thought with glee. She'd always wanted to do that, and now she just might get the chance! Takeoff was uneventful, and there was nothing to see out of the windows of the 757. She opened the paper sack: a veritable Hogwarts feast lay within. There were slices of dense, rich wheat bread with yellow butter, a good wedge of Caerphilly cheese, two small, fragrant red and yellow Hogwarts apples – and a package of chocolate frogs. Tears ran down Maura's face and bounced off her smiling lips. _What a time, what a time I had! What a story this will make, if I ever get the nerve to write it! _She bit into an apple, and the sweet juice squirted all over her hands.

Maura's head jerked upright. She'd been sleeping at her desk! Her clock told her she'd been asleep for an hour. Her Internet connection had logged her off for lack of activity. Her neck ached. She stretched in her chair, and stared in disbelief at her PC screen. Blue. The dreaded blue screen. "The system has made a fatal error..." She groaned, clicked Control-Alternate-Delete, set the computer to run a series of self-diagnostics, turned off the monitor and headed for the bathroom, yawning. It was enough for one day.

Scene: the battle: Death Eaters circle around Voldemort, facing outwards from him, ready to kill. Dumbledore's in the middle of them, and Voldemort calls Snape to him, to tell him to kill the Headmaster. Snape approaches the Dark Lord, but _it isn't Snape, it's Holmes_, and with a swift and deadly strike, he jabs the hypodermic into Voldemort's chest, pushes the plunger home, and Snape shouts the spell that negates Voldemort and his idea together. Voldemort collapses, Lucius Malfoy tries to take command, but from the balcony, a massive Cruciatus curse flings him to the ground. His own son has been waiting for years to slam his old man.

Holmes and Snape ascertained that Voldemort was dead. It was certain that his essence, that noxious revenant that had arisen twice before, could reappear in future, but for the present, the menace was gone. The Death Eaters were marched off to await trial and sentencing to Azkaban. With the evil creature's demise, magic returned as one and all felt the familiar prickling in their wand hands.

Holmes ripped off the borrowed Death Eater mask. "It's stifling, Snape, I don't know how you endured it."

"One becomes used to anything," stated Snape. He was exhausted emotionally as well as physically.


	37. Chapter 37 Let the Spell Be Cast

Chapter 37 **Let the Spell be Cast**

Harry and Ron hovered over their siege engine, positioned in the Gallery above the Great Hall, tinkering with it and making final adjustments. They loaded the bucket with Awful Eyeful grit pellets and weighted the fulcrum with a squat, heavy bombé chest from the hallway. Their brooms stood nearby, "in case we have to make a quick getaway." Ron nervously rubbed his hands against his robes; his palms were sweating.

"We've been talking about this battle for years," he said. "D'you think we'll win?"

Harry, as nervous as he, looked down to the floor of the Great Hall. "We have to win. If we don't put an end to Voldemort he'll put an end to us." He looked up, his face pale. The scar on his forehead stood out, livid against his white skin. "Whatever happens, we'll do our best."

"I hope Snape's daft idea works," said Ron. "That is, it isn't daft, it's – well, it's so odd, isn't it? A potion made from the same stuff that He Who Must Not Be Named used to give us influenza and take away our magic – turned around against him! How are they going to manage it?"

Harry sat down on the edge of the chest. "Voldemort thinks Mr Holmes is Snape; he fooled him at the last Death Eaters' meeting, dressed as a Death Eater. He looks so much like Snape, he will be close enough to inject him with the potion. Curses don't work on him, so even if Voldemort tries to strike him with Avada Kedavra, it won't do anything. As soon as he sees the needle go in, the real Snape will cast a spell which will activate the potion."

"How will we survive the Unforgivables the Death Eaters fling at us? We've only got a bit of our magic back."

"That's why Snape and Holmes have to strike immediately Voldemort makes an appearance. If he's struck down, the Death Eaters will fall apart. They're like puppets; cut their strings and they fall over. They think we have no magic; they're looking for an easy victory."

"Where's Hermione?" Ron looked for the familiar bushy hair below in the Great Hall. "Where's everyone?"

Students and Masters were hidden behind columns, in staircases, any place where they would not be in plain sight. Only the Headmaster, Professor McGonagall and Hagrid were visible, and they stood together, silently, waiting.

The great double doors of Hogwarts Castle opened, and Voldemort entered, surrounded by a phalanx of his masked, black-robed faithful. The Death Eaters circled around him, facing outwards, ready to strike. Lucius Malfoy, the white-blond hair that identified him flowing over the shoulders of his black robe, stood slightly behind and to one side of his Lord; second in command, ready to do his bidding.

Albus Dumbledore walked slowly over to face the Dark Lord. "This does not have to happen, Tom," he said gravely. "You will have no good of it, I promise you."

"It has to happen, and it will," hissed the evil creature. "Do I dare to call you Albus? There was a time I called you Headmaster, was there not?" Voldemort sneered, and plucked at Dumbledore's sleeve with a filthy talon. "But that was a long time ago, and now I, not you, determine what happens to Hogwarts. Hogwarts is no longer yours, Albus. It is mine; there is no room for you. See what I have done; you and your Masters have no magic; your students are all Squibs as well. You are no longer Wizards – and Wizards shall command Hogwarts! All of these Squibs shall serve us. They shall amuse us, yesssss." His forked tongue flicked out, tasted the air.

Dumbledore did not reply. He cocked his head to one side and stared off into space. Voldemort shifted uneasily from one foot to the other; he had expected Dumbledore's most persuasive pleas. But this – nothing?

"I lose patience with you, Albus. It ends now. Severusssss!" The Dark Lord beckoned to the tall Death Eater. The Wizard approached him.

"How may I serve, my Lord?"

Voldemort smirked. "Here is your – shall we call him foster father? He has been indulgent of you, my dear, but his usefulness is finished. We have no further need for him; we will do Hogwarts a great service if we send him to his ancestors. You may kill him."

The silver-masked figure bowed deeply to Voldemort. He moved over to stand between the Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore. He put one hand on the Headmaster's shoulder. His deep, oily voice resounded: "It ends here." Then, he turned, and with one swift and deadly movement, withdrew a hypodermic syringe out of a pocket and drew back his arm, to thrust it into Voldemort's shoulder.

"No!" Malfoy's foot, aimed by a powerful leg, lashed out and struck the arm of the Death Eater, and the hypodermic syringe sailed up, up, up into the air. "To me! Death Eaters, to me!" shrieked Voldemort.

Harry, preparing to unleash his siege engine's cargo of Awful Eyeful pellets by knocking off the counterweight with his broom, saw the hypodermic as it reached the apogee of its flight. He jumped on his broom, flung himself over the edge of the gallery and, as if he were reaching for the Golden Snitch, he grabbed the hypodermic out of the air and stooped like a hawk into a diving run, flinging the sharp point into Voldemort's back.

The real Snape pulled his wand from his sleeve, aimed it at Voldemort and shouted, "_Facit Incantatem!_" The Dark Lord staggered. He pointed his finger at Holmes and croaked, "Avada Kedavra!" Nothing happened. Then he saw the real Severus Snape: "Avada---" and his voice failed him. He clutched his throat and fell to the floor. Immediately his Death Eaters clustered around him protectively. Up in the gallery, Ron set the siege engine in motion – Awful Eyeful pellets bombarded the Death Eaters, and they pulled off their masks, clawed at their faces to get to their burning eyes.

Hermione felt a current like electricity run up her arm – her wand arm. "Neville!" she shrieked. "Now!" Quickly, the two pointed their wands at a black robed Death Eater and shouted, "Stupefy!" The Death Eater fell down, stiff as a post. Other students followed their example: one after the other, Death Eaters were hit by two hexes at a time before they could strike, and slumped to the floor.

What had been Voldemort lay on the floor of the Great Hall, eerie green smoke rising from his body. There was a flash of green light, the skull and serpent, _Morsmordre,_ hung in the air like a menacing balloon, then, as it dissolved, Voldemort's robes collapsed inwards, empty.

Lucius Malfoy cast around himself desperately, trying to find a way to take command. All of his fellow Death Eaters were either writhing on the floor in Leg Lock, stiff with Stupefy, or sailing across the Great Hall at the end of Hagrid's quarterstaff. Lucius ripped his mask from his face and threw it on the ground, looking around frantically for a way out, a way to save himself. Then, from the balcony, a massive Cruciatus curse flung him to the ground. He lay screaming, convulsing, blood gushing from his nose and ears, as Draco Malfoy backed away from the balcony edge, shaking. _I've been waiting for years to slam you, old man. _

The double doors flew open, and the Minister of Magic, at the head of a column of Aurors, walked into the Great Hall and took charge of the Stupefied Death Eaters, who were marched off to await trial and sentencing to Azkaban. Magic returned as one and all felt the familiar prickling in their wand hands.


	38. Chapter 38 Fare Thee Well

_Title: "All Will Be Revealed" Author: Dame Niamh Rating: R Disclaimer: All the Harry Potter characters you recognise were created by J.K. Rowling and are hers entirely. I owe Sherlock Holmes to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mary Russell to Laurie R. King, and the rest to my own imagination. Spoilers: None_

_Author's Note: Thanks and praise to Excessivelyperky, a most excellent and resourceful beta reader, without whose collaboration and knowledge this story would never have been written, to OzRatBag2 for matters medical and logical; and to Snape's Witch, for her insight. Blessed be! DN_

**Chapter 38 Fare Thee Well**

The noise level in the Great Hall reached pandemonium as the entire student body stood up, applauded, pounded fists upon tables and stamped feet in praise of Sherlock Holmes.

Albus Dumbledore had just delivered himself of a short but heartfelt speech in which he thanked the Great Detective for his invaluable assistance in ending the influenza epidemic whilst helping to rid the world of Voldemort. Although it was possible that his evil essence, the noxious revenant that had arisen twice before, could reappear in future, for the present time the menace was gone, and it was time to celebrate.

Dumbledore held his wand to his throat, and his voice belled out. "Settle down, all, please!" The students seated themselves, and the noise quieted and then ceased. "In honour of his extraordinary service to our school, its staff and its students, it is my honour to confer on Mr Sherlock Holmes the title of Honorary Professor of Hogwarts Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Step forward, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock Holmes rose from his seat at the Master's table, and approached the Headmaster. Minerva McGonagall held up a formal teacher's robe and assisted Holmes to don it. Dumbledore produced a fine wizard's cap embroidered with stars and moons, and settled it upon Holmes' head. "I give you Professor Sherlock Holmes!"

Holmes stepped forward and held up his hands to quell the incipient roar of congratulations. "Masters, students, honoured guests; I thank you for conferring upon me the rank of Honorary Professor. I wish that I could remain at Hogwarts for a time, and properly earn my teaching credentials, but I must leave these hallowed halls, and return to my responsibilities in Sussex.

"Before I go, however, I wish to mention and particularly thank those whose kindness, devotion to an honoured cause, and courage will remain forever in my heart: Madam Pomfrey and her staff (here, he gestured to Poppy Pomfrey, who blushed and smiled, Sister Brigit's small, secret smile spread across her lips and Sister Agrippina grinned with satisfaction); Rubeus Hagrid (the half giant looked down, embarrassed); Argus Filch and his ever vigilant assistant, Mrs Norris (Filch almost fell off his seat; no-one ever took notice of him or recognised his devoted service to Hogwarts); Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, and, of course, Headmaster Dumbledore."

A loud wave of applause resounded throughout the Great Hall. Holmes held his hands up again: "I must also commend all of Hogwarts' valiant students, without whom we would never have triumphed, in particular Mr Longbottom, Mr Malfoy, Miss Granger, Mr Weasley and our hero of the day, Mr Potter."

Holmes took another step forward. "Lest you think I have forgotten, I wish above all to commend, praise, laud and thank the man, erm, Wizard, without whom Hogwarts would be the Dark Lord's seat today, its students and masters, those that survived, his slaves, and the world as you know it in grave danger of an imminent holocaust of evil."

"I speak, of course, of the Potions Master of Hogwarts, my colleague and, although hard won, my friend – Professor Severus Snape."

Silence hung heavy over the Hall. Slowly, Severus Snape stood up, and slowly he walked to Holmes' side. He looked out at the assemblage, then back at Holmes. "Thank you," he said simply, and held out his hand, which Holmes clasped in both of his.

A deafening roar arose from students, Masters, House-Elves and the guests from the Ministry. Masters stood, applauding; students stood, shouted out their congratulations. "Hip!' Hip! Hurrah!" resounded mightily, followed by a chorus of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" begun by the Gryffindors and taken up by everyone else, even the Slytherins.

Colin Creevey ran in front of the Masters' Table, snapping photographs. At a wave of Dumbledore's wand, fireworks bloomed against the enchanted ceiling. Pitchers of cider appeared on the students' tables, and large bottles of wine on the Masters' table. House-Elves filled the goblets, and Albus Dumbledore stood to make the toast.

"To all of us and those we hold dear, good health!"

"Good health!" resounded as goblets clinked.

"To Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

"Hurrah! Hogwarts forever! Hurrah!"

"To Miss Maura McNicholas, who has returned to her home, and to whom we owe a debt of gratitude. To absent friends!"

"Absent friends!" echoed, to the tune of more clinking. The toasts continued far into the night.

Sherlock Holmes lifted his knapsack. It was somewhat heavier than it had been when he left Edinburgh; it contained his Master's robe, his wizard's hat, a box of Chocolate Frogs, and an assortment of keepsakes and memorabilia given to him by students and masters.

He stood on the broad steps of Hogwarts' main entrance, and looked around one last time. It was high spring, the cherry trees were in riotous bloom, and the sun lay like a golden benediction on the broad fields and orchards surrounding the castle. The lake sparkled like a wide blue gem.

"I shall miss you all," Holmes said. "May I return for a visit, in future? My assistant, Russell, would be most interested in Hogwarts and its people."

"Yes, of course," stated the Headmaster. "We should be delighted to welcome you and Miss Russell. It is always difficult to say goodbye, Mr Holmes, especially since you have become so much a part of us all." He pulled Holmes into a brief embrace and clapped him heartily on the back.

"Mr Holmes, I hope you have a pleasant trip back to Sussex. You take with you our good wishes and our gratitude." Minerva McGonagall put her arms around Holmes' neck and planted a loud kiss on his cheek.

Holmes took her hand and kissed her fingers. "Professor McGonagall, you will always be in my thoughts," he promised.

Hagrid hovered in the background, unwilling to step forward, but the Great Detective would have none of it; he approached the half-giant and clasped hands with him. "Good fortune to you, Hagrid, it has been a privilege to know you," he stated.

"Awwww," responded Hagrid. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. "Me an' Fang, sir, we'll not forget yeh."

A tug on the edge of his coat drew Holmes' attention, and he looked down. Nibby, the little House-Elf, stood at his side, and handed him a package wrapped in brown paper. "A lunch for you, Professor Holmes," the little creature said, blinking his large, round green eyes. Holmes knelt on one knee.

"Thank you, Nibby, for taking such good care of me." He shook hands solemnly with the House-Elf. As he rose, he met another pair of eyes, bright blue with golden sparkles.

"Fare ye well, Professor Holmes," said Sister Brigit. She put the palm of her right hand on his forehead. "Blessed be." Holmes caught her hand and kissed it, then released her hand. His last glimpse of Hogwarts, with the lovely Druid standing on the steps, waving good-bye to him, would last the rest of his life...and he would have to live with that.

"Come on, Mr Holmes." Hermione Granger stood at his elbow. "You'd best be on your way; it's going to be rather warm, and you want to get a good start while it's still pleasant." She took his arm. Severus Snape came out of the castle and approached him.

"I will walk with you to the edge of the forest," Snape stated. "Oh, Holmes, you might tuck these things into your rucksack. I believe they are yours." He held out Holmes' mackintosh, his pipe and his Scots Cranach.

"I can't imagine it! Where has all this been?"

"Damfino. I found it all on the table in the Tea Parlour."

Holmes waved to the party standing on the steps, put his pipe in his pocket and his mac over his shoulder, grasped his Cranach and they set off. "I do hope I find Russell in good humour," he remarked. "She has been studying herself into frenzy as the term end approaches, and I daresay I will return to Sussex to find her with her nose in her books, everlasting swot that she is."

"Now, Mr Holmes, you are very hard on her," Hermione retorted. "If I am not mistaken, you become equally absorbed in your work."

"Yes, and she belabours me frightfully for it."

Snape chuckled, a rare occurrence. "Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments," he intoned. "Your Shakespeare had an apt way of explaining behaviour; it is certain that you and Russell are two of a kind."

"Yes," Hermione replied tartly. "I know another two who are two of a kind, even if one is eminently practical and the other tends to fly off into irrelevancy." Snape took her hand, and she smiled.

"I shall not dignify that remark with a response," said Snape. "Holmes, I trust all will be well with you. Much as I loathe the admission, I shall miss you. I shall miss your supercilious manner, your insistence on your own somewhat random methods, and your insufferable hauteur when you are bested."

Holmes' eyebrows rose. "Indeed! How shall I survive without you, Snape? How shall I manage without your self-important posturing, your hideous temper and your combative nature when your every whim is not catered to immediately! Not to mention your caustic tongue..."

"_My_ caustic tongue! Need I remind you, _Professor_ Holmes, of your obvious delight in pelting me with insults to my intelligence, my experience, my - "

"Oh, do shut up, Snape, you natter on so, and on matters of no consequence; have you nothing of value to discuss?"

"Value! How dare you! When _you_, sir, have no inkling of the value of modern wizarding and its tried and true methods of detection –"

"Codswallop!"

Hermione tucked her hands through Snape's arm on her right and Holmes' arm on her left, and did her best to stifle a snigger. Going on at it up until the very end! Finally, they stood at the very edge of the Forbidden Forest.

"Mr Holmes, you know that you are to follow along the outer edge of the forest until you come to an ancient stone fence, and then continue on straight until you see the signpost for Ayr."

"Yes, Miss Granger, your directions are most clear. I shall have an uneventful tramp across the moor, and," here, he paused to take her hands in his, "and remember you both with fondness."

Snape put his hand on Holmes' shoulder. "Go safely," he said, "and please do give our regards to Miss Russell. We look forward to meeting her when you return."

Holmes straightened his back, slung on his rucksack, and with never a backward glance set off along the forest's border, his stride lengthening, his mac flapping, his Cranach swinging.

Snape put his arm around Hermione's shoulder. She looked up at him. "I know you'll miss him," she said softly. "But you need not worry; if it is a good fight you wish, I will be happy to oblige."

"I know you will, I trust you to battle me with fervour." He leaned his cheek on the top of her head, then straightened. "Hmmm. I wonder what he's going to say to Russell..."

Hermione's dimples appeared in her cheeks, and she produced a very creditable smirk. "He may try to conceal his time at Hogwarts from her, or tell her some cock and bull tale," she said.

"Yes, he is quite the inventor, is he not? I have heard some of his tales of past adventures, and they are more suited to Muggle penny-dreadfuls than to factual accounts." Snape tucked her hand through his arm. "One day he may tell her the truth."

Hermione looked up at him. "If he does," she stated, "I can just hear Russell saying tartly, 'You must have been eating hallucination-inducing mushrooms when you were in Scotland, Holmes.' She's quite pragmatic."

"Do you think so? Well, we shall leave them to Mr Conan Doyle and Mrs King, shan't we? In Holmes' time, Dumbledore had not yet defeated Grindelwald; we may yet see a return visit, for if nothing else, Mr Holmes is possessed of an insatiable curiosity."

"I, for one, would be delighted to see them both," said Hermione, and they continued along the lake path towards Hogwarts Castle, majestic in the morning light.


	39. Chapter 39 A Minor Inconvenience

_Disclaimer: All the Harry Potter characters you recognise were created by J.K. Rowling and are hers entirely. I owe Sherlock Holmes to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mary Russell to Laurie R. King, and the rest to my own imagination. _

_Author's Note: Thanks and praise to Excessivelyperky, a most excellent and resourceful beta reader, without whose collaboration and knowledge this story would never have been written, to OzRatBag2 for matters medical and logical; and to Snape's Witch, for her insight. Blessed be! DN_

Chapter 39 A Minor Inconvenience

_Sherlock Holmes arose stiffly, every bone in his body protesting. He put on his boots, rolled up his sleeping bag, and went to see if any coals were left from the fire he had banked before he went to sleep. He squinted at the horizon: ten of six, if he was any judge of sunrise. He checked his pocket-watch: eleven of six. The rolling hills of Ayrshire were cloaked in mist; he could hear the sea. The air was warm for a Scottish morning, although he could see his breath._

_Holmes had left Edinburgh University two days before and taken train to Ayr. After a long and stultifying conference during which he had presented his paper on forensic methods in criminology, he determined to walk in the Ayrshire hills, to get some fresh air and exercise, before returning to Sussex. As if I were twenty years younger, he chided himself. Although hale and healthy for his fifty-eight years, Holmes believed he had deteriorated since his retirement. How else to explain that a night spent sleeping on the ground, which ordinarily would have been refreshing and salutary, caused him to feel as if he had been lying on the proverbial bed of nails?_

_He took out his water-canteen and rummaged in his kit for his tin cup, tea, sugar, biscuits and, if he remembered aright, a tin of kippers_. He started up the fire, put water in his cup and set it next to the fire to heat, then retired behind a shrub to answer Nature's call.

As he restored his clothing, he became aware of a sound not native to Ayrshire; indeed, not native to nature at all. The corners of his mouth turned down. Someone was whistling. He despised whistling; it was an offensive and jarring sound.

Holmes straightened up and looked around the countryside. No-one was there; there was no whistler to be seen. Perhaps it had been a quirk of the wind blowing through a cracked and broken rock wall.

He returned to his fire and prepared to make his breakfast. He was about to open his tin of kippers when he heard it again: whistling, and not just any whistling, but the obnoxious sound of someone whistling through their teeth. Holmes stood up and crossed his arms over his chest. He stood as still as a stone, facing the direction from which the sound came. The top of a head appeared as a traveller climbed the small hill upon which Holmes had made his camp. The head wore an ugly brown woollen cap pulled down to the top of round-lensed spectacles. The face below the spectacles was no longer engaged in producing the sound of whistling; the jaw was clamped with iron fixity.

Mary Russell marched up to the detective until she stood toe to toe with him. "Holmes," she said through gritted teeth, "If I let you live it will not be out of pity for your advanced age. _Where have you been?_"

Holmes' eyebrows arched. "Why, Russell, you've come precisely in time for breakfast! Do sit down and have some kippers. Give me your cup; you shall have some of my tea. I will tell you about the stultifying Conference if you insist, but I think you will be much more interested in Dr Collier's peroration on the effect of shifting Continental plates on the appearance of the Loch Ness Monster."

Russell's shoulders slumped. There was no sense in trying to take the man to task for worrying her half to death. She sat down on a rock next to Holmes, pulled off her cap and shook her hair out. "Holmes, if you've no milk for tea, I have some sugar in my pack." She rummaged in her rucksack and produced several lumps of sugar.

Holmes looked at her, her cheeks pink from her long walk from the inn, her strawberry blond hair flowing over her shoulders. "Russell...ah, Russell, I thought you would still be at Oxford. You weren't worried about me, were you?"

Russell looked at him steadily. "Worried about you, Holmes? I am confident that if anything catastrophic should happen to you, I would have only to look at the morning paper to know about it. Worry? Not any more than you would worry about me."

Holmes drew a breath of relief. "I'm glad to see that you've taken the opportunity to get some exercise and fresh air and a respite from your Greek and Hebrew. As it is, there is the remnant of an ancient Druid temple nearby; I would welcome your opinion of it."

"Holmes, it is the end of the term, and I am looking forward to returning to Sussex and seeing how the farm fares. I don't mind visiting your Druid temple, but I suggest that when we have seen it, we return to Ayr and enquire when the next train leaves for Edinburgh."

A ghost of a smile quirked Holmes' mouth. "Always practical, Russell! We never know what adventure we may discover, and yet you are keen to get home to the mundane concerns of the farm."

"Adventure! Holmes, every adventure we have had together ends with my being cold and wet, sleepless and hungry, often in danger of my life and you of yours, and you wonder why the placidity of the farm sounds like Heaven to me? I have been working hard, as you well know, and would rather have taken train directly to Sussex than tramp over this inhospitable Scottish countryside. I had begun to hallucinate strange -- things --until I realised that it was merely the effect of fatigue."

"You? Hallucinations? Rubbish! You're never more yourself than when you are up to your eyebrows in danger, a step and a half ahead of peril! As for fatigue, you drive yourself without mercy, not that I provide much of an example in that regard. Your daring often exceeds your judgment, and I am forced to drag you back to sanity when you would crash on madly!"

"You have a colossal cheek; do you know it, Holmes? Since you brought it up, I might say that I almost had Scotland Yard looking for you in Loch Ness. It would be just like you to pay a call on Nessie, determined to have a ride through the loch on her back! One day they will fish you out of some body of water, wounded, bloody and probably covered in slime, and what shall I do with you then? Throw you back and return to Oxford?"

Holmes threw back his head and laughed. "You would haul me up and lecture me on the unsanitary conditions of the water!"

Russell scowled. "It's evident that your little constitutional on the Ayrshire moors hasn't tempered your acerbic wit any, Holmes. You lose no opportunity to throw your failings upon me as if they were my fault."

"I do no such thing. It is you who bring it on yourself, with your faulty logic and precipitous conclusions."

"Precipitous! Fiddlesticks! Holmes, you have invented yourself, with your self-involvement, disregard of personal peril and complete indifference to others' concerns. It is said that one never sees the hump on one's own back."

"Poppycock, Russell, I say, poppycock! I am always concerned about you. Why, in the space of one month, I..."

And so they packed up the breakfast gear, poured what was left of the tea on the coals, shouldered their rucksacks and set off in the general direction of Ayr, arguing every step of the way.

**Finis**


End file.
